CXCI. CRANKEY JEM'S HISTORY…

CXCI. CRANKEY JEM'S HISTORY

My father's name was Robert Cuffin. At the death of his father he succeeded to a good business as grocer and tea-dealer; but he was very extravagant, and soon became bankrupt. He obtained his certificate, and then embarked as a wine merchant. At the expiration of three years he failed again, and once more appeared in the Gazette. This time he was refused his certificate. He, however, set up in business a third time, and became a coal merchant. His extravagances continued: so did his misfortunes. He failed, was thrown into prison, and took the benefit of the Insolvents' Act—but not without a long remand. On his release from gaol, he turned dry-salter. This new trade lasted a short time, and ended as all the others had done. Another residence in prison—another application to the Insolvents' Court—and another remand, ensued.

"My father was now about forty years of age, and completely ruined. He had no credit—no resources—no means of commencing business again. He was, however, provided with a wife and seven children—all requiring maintenance, and he having nothing to maintain them on. I was not as yet born. It appears that my father sate down one evening in a very doleful humour, and in a very miserable garret, to meditate upon his circumstances. He revolved a thousand schemes in his head; but all required some little credit or capital wherewith to make a commencement; and he had neither. At length he started up, slapped his hand briskly upon the table, and exclaimed, 'By heavens, I've got it!'—'Got what?' demanded his wife.—'A call!' replied my father.—'A call!' ejaculated his better half, in astonishment.—'Yes; a call,' repeated my father; 'a call from above to preach the blessed Gospel and cleanse the unsavoury vessels of earth from their sinfulness.'—His wife began to cry, for she thought that distress had turned his brain; but he soon convinced her that he was never more in earnest in his life. He desired her to make the room look as neat as possible, and get a neighbour to take care of the children for an hour or two in the evening, when he should return with a few friends. He then went out, and his wife obeyed his instructions. Sure enough, in the evening, back came my father with a huge Bible under one arm and a Prayer-Book under the other, and followed by half-a-dozen demure-looking ladies and gentlemen, who had a curious knack of keeping their eyes incessantly fixed upwards—or heaven-ward, as my father used to express it.

"Well, the visitors sate down; and my father, whose countenance had assumed a most wonderful gravity of expression since the morning, opened the prayer-meeting with a psalm. He then read passages from the two sacred books he had brought with him; and he wound up the service by an extemporaneous discourse, which drew tears from the eyes of his audience.

"The prayer-meeting being over, an elderly lady felt herself so overcome with my father's convincing eloquence, that a considerate old gentleman sent for a bottle of gin; and thus my father's 'call' was duly celebrated.

"To be brief—so well did my father play his cards, that he soon gathered about him a numerous congregation; a chapel was hired somewhere in Goodman's Fields; and he was now a popular minister. His flock placed unbounded confidence in him—nay almost worshipped him; so that, thanks to their liberality, he was soon provided with a nicely-furnished house in the immediate vicinity of the chapel. Next door to him there dwelt a poor widow, named Ashford, and who had a very pretty daughter called Ruth. These females were amongst the most devoted of my father's flock; and in their eyes the reverend preacher was the pattern of virtue and holiness. The widow was compelled to take a little gin at times 'for the stomach's sake;' but one day she imbibed too much, fell down in a fit, and died. My father preached a funeral sermon, in which he eulogised her as a saint; and he afforded an asylum to the orphan girl. Ruth accordingly became an inmate of my father's house.

"And now commences the most extraordinary portion of the history of my father's life. You will admit that the suddenness of his 'call' was remarkable enough; but this was nothing to the marvellous nature of a vision which one night appeared to him. Its import was duly communicated to Miss Ashford next day; and the young lady piously resigned herself to that fate which my father assured her was the will of heaven. In a few months the consequences of the vision developed themselves; for Miss Ashford was discovered to be in the family way. My father's lawful wife raised a storm which for some time seemed beyond the possibility of mitigation; the deacons of the chapel called, and the elders of the congregation came to investigate the matter. My father received them with a countenance expressive of more than ordinary demureness and solemnity. A conclave was held—explanations were demanded of my father. Then was it that the author of my being rose, and, in a most impressive manner, acquainted the assembly with the nature of his vision. 'The angel of the Lord,' he said, 'appeared to me one night, and ordered me to raise up seed of righteousness, so that when the Lord calls me unto himself, fitting heirs to carry on the good work which I have commenced, may not fail. I appealed to the angel in behalf of my own lawfully begotten offspring; but the angel's command brooked not remonstrances, and willed that I should raise up seed of Ruth Ashford: for she is blessed, in that her name is Ruth.'—This explanation was deemed perfectly satisfactory: and, when the deacons and elders had departed, my father succeeded some how or another not only in pacifying his wife, but also in reconciling her to the amour which he still carried on with Miss Ashford.[19]

"Thus my father preserved both his mistress and his sanctity—at least for some considerable time longer. The fruit of that amour was myself; and my name is consequently Ashford—James Ashford—although my father insisted upon calling me Cuffin. Time wore on; but by degrees the jealousies which my father had at first succeeded in appeasing, developed themselves in an alarming manner between the wife and the mistress. Scenes of violence occurred at the house of his Reverence; and the neighbours began to think that their minister's amour was not quite so holy in its nature as he had represented it. The congregation fell off; and my father's reputation for sanctity was rapidly wearing out. Still he would not part with my mother and me; and the result was that his lawful wife left the house with all her own children. My father refused to support them; the parish officers interfered; and the scandal was grievously aggravated. Death arrived at this juncture to carry away the principal bone of contention. My mother became dangerously ill, and after languishing in a hopeless condition for a few weeks, breathed her last.

"Having thus stated the particulars of my birth, it will not be necessary to dwell on this portion of my narrative. I will only just observe that, at the death of Miss Ashford, a reconciliation was effected between my father and his wife; and that the former contrived to maintain his post as minister of the chapel—though with a diminished flock, and consequently with a decreased revenue. Nevertheless, I obtained a smattering of education at the school belonging to the chapel, and was treated with kindness by my father, although with great harshness by his wife. Thus continued matters until I was fifteen, when my father died; and I was immediately thrust out of doors to shift for myself.

"I was totally friendless. Vainly did I call upon the deacons and elders of the congregation; even those who had adhered to my father to the very last, had their eyes opened now that he was no longer present to reason with them. They spurned me from their doors; and I was left to beg or steal. I chose the former; but one night I was taken up by a watchman (there were no police in those times) because I was found wandering about without being able to give a satisfactory account of myself. You may look astonished; but I can assure you that when a poor devil says, 'I am starving—houseless—friendless—pennyless,' it is supposed to mean that he can't give a satisfactory account of himself! In the morning I was taken before the magistrate, and committed to the House of Correction as a rogue and vagabond.

"In prison I became acquainted with a number of young thieves and pickpockets; and, so desperate was my condition, that when the day of emancipation arrived, I was easily persuaded to join them. Then commenced a career which I would gladly recall—but cannot! Amongst my new companions I obtained the nickname of 'Crankey,' because I was subject to fits of deep despondency and remorse, so that they fancied I was not right in my head. In time I became the most expert housebreaker in London—Tom the Cracksman alone excepted. My exploits grew more and more daring; and on three occasions I got into trouble. The first and second times I was sent to the hulks. I remember that on my second trial a pal of mine was acquitted through a flaw in the indictment. He was charged with having broken into and burglariously entered a jeweller's shop. It was, however, proved by one of the prosecutor's own witnesses that the shop door had been accidentally left unlocked and unbolted, and that consequently he had entered without any violence at all. Thanks to the laws, he escaped on that ground, although judge and jury were both convinced of his guilt. Time wore on; and I formed new acquaintances in the line to which I was devoted. These were Tom the Cracksman, Bill Bolter, Dick Flairer, the Buffer, and the Resurrection Man. With them I accomplished many successful burglaries; but at length I got into trouble a third time, and a stop was put to my career in London. It was in the year 1835 that the Resurrection Man and I broke into a jeweller's shop in Princes Street, Soho. We got off with a good booty. The Resurrection Man went over to the Mint: I let Dick Flairer into the secret, gave him a part of my share in the plunder, and then took to a hiding-place which there is in Chick Lane, Smithfield. Now I knew that Dick was stanch to the back-bone; and so he proved himself—for he brought me my food as regularly as possible; and at the end of a week, the storm had blown over enough to enable me to leave my hiding-place. I hastened to join the Resurrection Man in the Mint, where I stayed two or three days. Then the miscreant sold me, in order to save himself; and we were both committed to Newgate. Tidkins turned King's Evidence; and I was sentenced to transportation for life. The Resurrection Man was discharged at the termination of the business of the sessions.

"Myself and several other convicts, who were sentenced at the same session, were removed from Newgate to the Penitentiary at Millbank. Amongst the number were two persons whose names you may have heard before, because their case made a great noise at the time. These were Robert Stephens and Hugh Mac Chizzle, who were the principal parties concerned in a conspiracy to pass a certain Eliza Sydney off as a young man, and defraud the Earl of Warrington out of a considerable property. We remained about a fortnight in the Penitentiary, and were then transferred to the convict-ship at Woolwich. But before we left Millbank, we were clothed in new suits of grey, or pepper-and-salt, as we called the colour; and we were also ironed. The convict-ship was well arranged for its miserable purpose. On each side of the between-decks were two rows of sleeping-berths, one above the other: each berth was about six feet square, and was calculated to hold four convicts, eighteen inches' space to sleep in being considered ample room enough for each individual. The hospital was in the fore-part of the vessel, and was separated from the prison by means of a bulk-head, in which partition there were two strong doors, forming a means of communication between the two compartments. The fore and main hatchways, between decks, were fitted up with strong wooden stanchions round them; and in each of those stanchions there was a door with three padlocks, to let the convicts in and out, and secure them effectually at night. In each hatchway a ladder was placed, for us to go up and down by; and these ladders were always pulled on deck after dusk. Scuttle-holes, or small ports to open and shut for the admission of air, were cut along the vessel's sides; and in the partition between the prison and the hospital was fixed a large stove, with a funnel, which warmed and ventilated both compartments at the same time. When we were placed on board the convict-ship, we had each a pair of shoes, two pairs of trousers, four shirts, and other warm clothing, besides a bed, bolster, and blanket. Of Bibles, Testaments, and Prayer-Books, there was also plenty.

"The moment the surgeon came on board, he arranged the mess-berths and mess-tables. All the clothing, linen, bedding, and other articles were marked with consecutive numerals in black paint, from No. 1. up to the highest number of convicts embarked. Thus, we messed and slept along the prison-deck in regular numerical progression. In food we were not stinted: each man had three-quarters of a pound of biscuit daily; and every day, too, we sate down to beef, pork, or pease-soup. Gruel and cocoa were served out for breakfast and supper. Every week we received a certain quantity of vinegar, lime-juice, and sugar, which were taken as preventatives for scurvy. Each mess selected a head, or chairman, who saw the provisions weighed out, and that justice was done in this particular to each individual at his table.

"The surgeon selected six of the most fitting amongst the convicts to act the part of petty officers, whose duty it was to see his orders punctually executed, and to report instances of misconduct. Four of these remained in the prison; and the other two were stationed on deck, to watch those convicts who came up in their turns for airing. The Captains of the Deck, as the officers were called, had some little extra allowance for their trouble, and were moreover allowed a certain quantity of tobacco.

"It was in January, 1836, that we sailed for Sydney. Although I had no wife,—no children,—and, I may almost say, no friend that I cared about,—still my heart sank within me, when, from the deck of the convict-ship, I caught a last glimpse of the white cliffs of Old England. Tears came into my eyes; and I, who had not wept since childhood, wept then. But there were several of my companions who had left wives and children, or parents, behind them; and I could read on their countenances the anguish which filled their inmost souls!

"The surgeon was a kind and humane man. The moment we were out of sight of land, he ordered our chains to be taken off; and he allowed us to enjoy as much air upon deck as we could possibly require. The guard, under the command of a commissioned officer, consisted of thirty-one men, and did duty on the quarter-deck in three alternate watches. A sentry, with a drawn cutlass, stood at each hatchway; and the soldiers on watch always had their fire-arms loaded.

"When we had been to sea a little time, most of the convicts relapsed into their old habits of swearing, lying, and obscene conversation. They also gambled at pitch and toss, the stakes being their rations. Thieving prevailed to a very great extent; for the convict who lost his dinner by gambling, was sure to get one by stealing. They would often make wagers amongst themselves as to who was the most expert thief; and when the point was put to a practical test, dreadful quarrels would arise, the loser of the wager, perhaps, discovering that he himself was the victim of the trial of skill, and that his hoard of lime-juice, sugar, tobacco, or biscuit had disappeared. Stephens, who was at the same mess with myself, did all he could to discourage these practices; but the others pronounced him 'a false magician,' and even his friend, Mac Chizzle, turned against him. So at last he gave up the idea of introducing a reformation amongst his brethren in bondage. The fact is, that any convict who attempts to humbug the others by pretensions to honesty, or who expresses some superior delicacy of sentiment, which, of course, in many instances is actually experienced, had better hang himself at once. The equality of the convict-ship is a frightful equality,—the equality of crime,—the levelling influence of villany,—the abolition of all social distinctions by the hideous freemasonry of turpitude and its consequent penalties! And yet there is an aristocracy, even in the prison of the convict-ship,—an aristocracy consisting of the oldest thieves, in contra-distinction to the youngest; and of townies,[20] in opposition to yokels.[21] The deference paid by the younger thieves to the elder ones is astonishing; and that man who, in relating his own history, can enumerate the greatest number of atrocities, is a king amongst convicts. Some of the best informed of the convicts wrote slang journals during the passage, and read them once a-week to the rest. They generally referred to the sprees of the night, and contained some such entries as this:—'A peter cracked and frisked, while the cobbles dorsed; Sawbones came and found the glim doused; fadded the dobbins in a yokel's crib, while he blew the conkey-horn; Sawbones lipped a snitch; togs leered in yokel's downy; yokel screwed with the darbies.' The exact meaning of this is:—'A chest broken open and robbed while the convicts slept: surgeon came in and found the lamp put out; the thief thrust the clothes which he had stolen into a countryman's berth, while he was snoring fast asleep; the surgeon ordered a general search; the clothes were found in the countryman's bed; and the countryman was put into irons.'

"I must observe, that while the ship was still in the Thames, none of the convicts would admit that they deserved their fate. They all proclaimed themselves much-injured individuals, and declared that the Home Secretary was certain to order a commutation of their sentence. The usual declarations were these:—'I am sure never to see New South Wales. The prejudice of the judge against me at the trial were evident to all present in the court. The jury were totally misled by his summing-up. My friends are doing every thing they can for me; and I am sure to get off.'—Out of a hundred and ten convicts, at least a hundred spoke in this manner. But the ship sailed,—England was far behind,—and not one single convict had his hopes of a commuted sentence gratified. Then, when those hopes had disappeared, they all opened their budget of gossip most freely, and related their exploits in so frank a manner, that it was very easy to perceive the justice of the verdicts which had condemned them.

"The voyage out was, on the whole, a tolerably fine one. It lasted four months and a half; and it was, consequently, in the middle of May that we arrived in sight of Sydney. But, when thus at the point of destination, the sea became so rough, and the wind blew such 'great guns,' that the captain declared there was mischief at hand. The convicts were all ordered into the prison, the ports of which were closed; and the heat was stifling. The tempest came with appalling violence. Crash went every loose thing on board,—the timbers creaked as if they would start from their settings,—the ropes rattled,—and the wind whistled horribly through the rigging. The ship was lifted to an immense height, and then by the fall of the mountain wave, was plunged into the depths of the trough of the sea;—at one moment dipping the studding-sail boom into the water,—and the next lying nearly on its beam-ends on the opposite side. I afterwards learnt from a sailor, that the waves were forty feet high, twenty below the ordinary level of the sea, and twenty above it. Thus, when we were in the trough, they were forty feet above our heads! Towards evening the storm subsided; and early next morning Sydney broke more clearly upon our view.

"Sydney is beautifully situated. It possesses a fine ascent from a noble harbour; and its bays, its coves, its gardens, its gentlemen's seats, form a pleasing spectacle. Then its forests of masts—the Government-house, with its beautiful domain—the numerous wharfs—the thousands of boats upon the glassy water—and Wooloomooloo, with its charming villas and its windmills,—all these combine to enhance the interest of the scene. The town itself is far more handsome than I had expected to find it. The shops are very fine—particularly the silversmiths', the haberdashers', and confectioners', which would not disgrace the West End of London. They are mostly lighted with gas, and in the evening have a brilliant appearance. There is an astonishing number of grog-shops—nearly two hundred and fifty, for a population of 30,000 souls. George Street and Pitt Street are the principal thoroughfares: and the rents are so high that they average from three to five hundred pounds a-year. There are no common sewers in Sydney; and, although the greater portion of the town stands upon a height, yet many of the principal streets are perfectly level, and the want of a vent for the foul water and other impurities is sadly felt. I may add, that the first appearance of Sydney and its inhabitants does not impress a stranger with the idea of being in a country so far away from Europe; the language, the manners, and the dress of the people being so closely similar to those of England. But wait a little while, and a closer observation produces a different effect. Presently you will see the government gangs of convicts, marching backwards and forwards from their work in single military file,—solitary ones straggling here and there, with their white woollen Paramatta frocks and trousers, or grey or yellow jackets with duck overalls, all daubed over with broad arrows and initial letters to denote the establishment to which they belong,—and then the gaol-gang, moving sulkily along with their jingling leg-chains,—all these sad spectacles telling a tale of crime and its effects, and proclaiming trumpet-tongued the narrative of human degradation!

"The ship entered the harbour; our irons had already been put on again some days previously; and we were all landed under the care of the guard. We were marched to the gaol-yard; and there our clothes were all daubed over with broad arrows and the initials P. S.—meaning 'Prisoners' Barracks,' to which establishment we were conducted as soon as the ceremony of painting our garments was completed. This barrack had several large day-rooms and numerous sleeping wards, the bedsteads being arranged in two tiers, or large platforms, but without separation. In every room there was a man in charge who was answerable for the conduct of the rest; but no one ever thought of complaining of the misbehaviour of his companions. A tread-mill was attached to the building: there were moreover several solitary cells—a species of punishment the horrors of which no tongue can describe.

"In the course of a few days we were all divided into sections, according to the degrees of punishment which we were to undergo. Stephens and Mac Chizzle were kept at Sydney: I was sent with some thirty others to Port Macquarie—a place about two hundred and sixty miles, as the crow flies, to the north of Sydney.

"The scenery is magnificent in the neighbourhood of Macquarie Harbour: but the life of the convict—oh! that is fearful in the extreme! I know that I was a great criminal—I know that my deeds demanded a severe punishment; but death had been preferable to a doom like that! Compelled to endure every kind of privation,—shut out from the rest of the world,—restricted to a very limited quantity of food, which never included fresh meat,—kept in chains and under a military guard with fixed bayonets and loaded fire-arms,—with no indulgence for good conduct, but severe penalties, even flogging or solitary confinement, for the smallest offences,—constantly toiling in the wet, at felling timber and rolling it to the water,—forced to support without murmuring the most terrible hardships,—how did I curse the day when I rendered myself liable to the discipline of this hell upon earth! I will give you an idea of the horrors of that place:—during the six months that I remained there, nineteen deaths occurred amongst two hundred and twenty convicts; and of those nineteen, only five were from natural causes. Two were drowned, four were killed by the falling of trees, three were shot by the military, and five were murdered by their comrades! And why were those murders perpetrated? Because the assassins were tired of life, but had not the courage to commit suicide; and therefore they accomplished crimes which were sure to be visited by death upon the scaffold!

"The chain-gang to which I belonged was stationed at Philip's Creek; and our business was to supply timber for the ship-builders on Sarah's Island. We were lodged in huts of the most miserable description; and though our toils were so long and arduous, our rations were scarcely sufficient to keep body and soul together. The timber we cut was principally Huon pine; no beasts of burden were allowed; and we had to roll the trunks of trees to an immense distance. What with the humid climate, the want of fresh meat, and the severity of the labour, no man who fell ill ever entertained a hope of recovery. Talk of the civilised notions of the English—talk of the humane principles of her penal laws,—why, the Inquisition itself could not have been more horrible than the doom of the convict at Macquarie Harbour! Again I say, it was true that we were great criminals; but surely some adequate mode of punishment—some mode involving the means of reformation—might have been devised, without the application of so much real physical torture! I have heard or read that when the Inquisition put its victims to the rack, it afterwards remanded them to their dungeons, and allowed them leisure to recover and be cured;—but in the penal settlement of Port Macquarie those tortures were renewed daily—and they killed the miserable sufferers by inches!

"Our rations consisted daily of one pound and a half of flour, from which twelve per cent. of bran had been subtracted, one pound and a half of salt meat, and half an ounce of soap. No tea—no vegetables. The flour was made into cakes called damper, cooked in a frying-pan; and this wasteful mode of preparing it greatly diminished its quantity. Besides, divide those rations into three parts, and you will find that the three meals are little enough for men toiling hard from sunrise to sunset. The convict who did not keep a good look-out on his provisions was certain to be robbed by his comrades; and some men have been plundered to such an extent as actually to have been on the very verge of starvation.

"I had not been at Macquarie Harbour more than five months, when Stephens and Mac Chizzle arrived, and were added to our chain-gang. This punishment they had incurred for having endeavoured to escape from Sydney, where they had been treated with some indulgence, in consequence of their station in life previous to their sentence in England. So miserable was I, with hard work and scanty food, that I resolved to leave the place, or perish in the attempt. I communicated my design to Stephens and Mac Chizzle; and they agreed to accompany me. Escape from Macquarie was known to be a most difficult undertaking; and few convicts who essayed it were ever able to reach the settlements in other parts of the Colony. They were either murdered by their comrades for a supply of food, or perished in the bush. Formidable forests had to be traversed; and the chance of catching kangaroos was the only prospect of obtaining the means of existence. Nevertheless, I resolved to dare all those horrors and fearful risks, rather than remain at Philip's Creek. Five or six others, in addition to Stephens and Mac Chizzle, agreed to adopt this desperate venture with me; and one night we stole away—to the number of ten—from the huts.

"Yes—we thus set out on this tremendous undertaking, each individual possessing no more food than was sufficient for a single meal. And ere the sun rose all our store was consumed; and we found ourselves in the middle of a vast forest—without a guide—without victuals—almost without a hope! Convicts are not the men to cheer each other: misfortunes have made them selfish, brutal, and sulky. We toiled on in comparative silence. One of my companions, who had been ten years at Macquarie Harbour, was well acquainted with the mode in which the natives search for traces of the opossum; and, when hunger began to press upon us, he examined every tree with a hollow limb, and also the adjacent trees for marks of the opossum's claws. For, I must tell you, that this animal is so sagacious, that it usually runs up a neighbouring tree and thence jumps to the one wherein its retreat is, in order to avoid being traced. The convict to whom I have alluded, and whose name was Blackley, at length discovered the trail of an opossum, and clambered up the tree in which its hole was found, by means of successive notches in the bark, to place the great toe in. Having reached the hole, he probed it with a long stick, and found that there actually was an opossum within. Thrusting in his hand, he seized the animal by the tail, pulled it out, and killed it by a swinging dash against the trunk of a tree. But this was little enough among so many. We, however, made a fire, cooked it, and thus contrived just to mitigate the terrible cravings of hunger. The flesh of the opossum is like that of a rabbit, and is therefore too delicate to enable a hearty appetite to make a good meal on a tenth portion of so small an animal.

"On the following day Blackley managed to kill a kangaroo, weighing about sixty pounds; and thus we were supplied with food for three or four days, acting economically. The flesh of the kangaroo is much like venison, and is very fine eating. We continued our way amidst the forest, which appeared endless; and in due time the kangaroo's flesh was consumed. Blackley was unwearied in his exertions to provide more food; and, so much time was wasted in these endeavours, that we made but little progress in our journey. And now, to our terror, Blackley could find no more opossums—could kill no more kangaroos. We grew desperate: starvation was before us. Moody—sulky—glaring on each other with a horribly significant ferocity, we dragged ourselves along. Four days elapsed—and not a mouthful of food had we touched. On the fifth night we made a fire, and sate round it at considerable distances from each other. We all endeavoured to remain awake: we trembled at the approach of drowsiness—for we knew the consequences of sleep in our desperate condition. There we sate—none uttering a word,—with cracked and bloody lips—parched throats—eyes glowing with cannibal fires,—our minds a prey to the most appalling thoughts. At length Mac Chizzle, the lawyer, fell back in a sound slumber, having no doubt found it impossible to bear up against the weariness which was creeping over him. Then Blackley rose, and went farther into the wood. It required no ghost to tell us that he had gone to cut a club for a horrible purpose. The most breathless silence prevailed. At length there was a strange rustling amongst the trees at a little distance; and then cries of indescribable agony fell upon our ears. These tokens of distress were in the voice of Blackley, who called us by name, one after another. A vague idea of the real truth rivetted us to the spot; and in a short time the cries ceased altogether. Oh! what a night of horror was that! An hour had elapsed since Blackley's disappearance; and we had ceased to trouble ourselves concerning his fate:—our own intolerable cravings for food were the sole objects of our thoughts. Nor was Mac Chizzle doomed to escape death. A convict named Felton determined to execute the purpose which Blackley had entertained—though in a different manner. Afraid to venture away from the party to cut a bludgeon, he drew a large clasp-knife from his pocket, and plunged the long sharp blade into the breast of the sleeper. A cry of horror burst from Stephens and myself; and we rushed forward—now that it was unfortunately too late—to save the victim. We were well aware of the man's intentions when he approached his victim; but it was not until the blow was struck that we had the courage to interfere. It was, however, as I have said—too late! Mac Chizzle expired without a groan.

"I cannot dwell upon this scene: depraved—wicked—criminal as I was in many respects, my soul revolted from the idea of cannibalism, now that the opportunity of appeasing my hunger by such horrible means was within my reach. Stephens and I retired a little from the rest, and turned our backs upon the frightful work that was in progress. Again I say—oh! the horrors of that night! I was starving—and food was near. But what food? The flesh of a fellow-creature! In imagination I followed the entire process that was in operation so close behind me; and presently the hissing of the flesh upon the embers, and the odour of the awful cookery, convinced me that the meal would soon be served up. Then how did I wrestle with my own inclinations! And Stephens, I could well perceive, was also engaged in a terrific warfare with the promptings of hunger. But we resisted the temptation: yes—we resisted it;—and our companions did not trouble themselves to invite us to their repast.

"At length the morning dawned upon that awful and never-to-be-forgotten night. The fire was now extinguished; but near the ashes lay the entrails and the head of the murdered man. The cannibals had completely anatomised the corpse, and had wrapped up in their shirts (which they took off for the purpose) all that they chose to carry away with them. Not a word was spoken amongst us. The last frail links of sympathy—if any really had existed—seemed to have been broken by the incidents of the preceding night. Six men had partaken of the horrible repast; and they evidently looked on each other with loathing, and on Stephens and myself with suspicion. We all with one accord cut thick sticks, and advanced in the direction whence Blackley's cries had proceeded a few hours previously. His fate was that which we had suspected: an enormous snake was coiled around the wretch's corpse—licking it with its long tongue, to cover it with saliva for the purpose of deglutition. We attacked the monstrous reptile, and killed it. Its huge coils had actually squeezed our unfortunate comrade to death! Then—for the first time for many, many years—did a religious sentiment steal into my soul; and I murmured to myself: 'Surely this was the judgment of God upon a man who had meditated murder.'

"That same day Stephens and myself gave our companions the slip, and struck into another direction together. We were fortunate enough to kill a kangaroo; and we made a hearty meal upon a portion of its flesh. Then how did we rejoice that we had withstood the temptation of the cannibal banquet! Stephens fell upon his knees and prayed aloud: I imitated his example—I joined in his thanksgiving. We husbanded our resources as much as possible; and God was merciful to us. We succeeded in killing another kangaroo, even before the first was entirely consumed; and this new supply enabled us to reach a settlement without further experiencing the pangs of hunger. Prudence now compelled us to separate; for though we had rid ourselves of our chains, we were still in our convict garb; and it was evident that two persons so clad were more likely to attract unpleasant notice, than one individual skulking about by himself. We accordingly parted; and from that moment I have never heard of Stephens. Whether he succeeded in escaping from the colony altogether, or whether he took to the bush again and perished, I know not:—that he was not retaken I am sure, because, were he captured, he would have been sent to Norfolk Island; and that he did not visit that most horrible of all the penal settlements—at least during a period of eighteen months after our escape from Macquarie—I am well aware, for reasons which I shall soon explain.

"In fact, I was not long at large after I separated with Stephens. My convict-dress betrayed me to a party of soldiers: I was arrested, taken to Sydney, tried, and sentenced to transportation to Norfolk Island. Before I left England in 1836, and since my return towards the end of 1839, I have heard a great many persons talk about Norfolk Island; but no one seemed to know much about it. I will therefore tell you something concerning it now.

"A thousand miles to the eastward of Sydney there are three islands close together. As you advance towards them in a ship from Sydney, Philip Island, which is very high land, and has a bold peak to the south, comes in view: close beyond it the lower hills of Norfolk Island, crowned with lofty pines, appear in sight; and between those two islands is a small and sterile speck called Nepean Island. Norfolk Island is six miles and a half long, and four broad—a miserable dot in the ocean compared to the vast tract of Australia. The soil is chiefly basaltic, and rises into hills covered with grass and forest. Mount Pitt—the loftiest eminence in the island—is twelve hundred feet above the level of the sea. The Norfolk Island pine shoots to a height of a hundred feet,—sometimes growing in clumps, elsewhere singly, on the grassy parts of the island, even to the very verge of the shore, where its roots are washed by the sea at high water. The apple-fruited guava, the lemon, grapes, figs, coffee, olives, pomegranates, strawberries, and melons have been introduced, and are cultivated successfully. The island is every where inaccessible, save at an opening in a low reef fronting the little bay; and that is the point where the settlement is situated. The Prisoners' Barracks are pretty much upon the same plan as those at Sydney, and which I described to you just now. There is a room, called the Court-House, where the Protestant prisoners meet on Sunday to hear prayers; and there is another, called the Lumber-Yard room, for the Roman Catholics. The prayers in both places are read by prisoners. The principal buildings in the settlement are the Commandant's Residence, the Military Barracks, the Penitentiary, the Gaol, and the Hospital. The convicts are principally employed in quarrying stone; and as no gunpowder is used in blasting the rocks, and the stone is raised by means of levers, the labour is even more crushing than that of wood-felling at Port Macquarie. The prisoners, moreover, have to work in irons; and the food is not only insufficient, but bad—consisting only of dry maize bread and hard salt meat. Were it not for the supply of wild fruits in the island, the scurvy would rage like a pestilence. Between Macquarie Harbour and Norfolk Island I can only draw this distinction—that the former is Purgatory, and the latter Hell!

"There is no attempt to reform the prisoners in Norfolk Island, beyond prayer-reading—and this is of scarcely any benefit. The convicts are too depraved to be amended by mere moral lessons: they want education; they require to be treated like human beings, instead of brute beasts, criminal though they are; they need a sufficiency of wholesome food, to enable them to toil with something approaching a good will; they ought to be protected against the tyranny of overseers, who send them to gaol for the most trivial offences, or on the slightest suspicions; they should not be forced to labour in chains which gall their ankles almost to the bone, when a guard with loaded muskets is ever near, and seeing that shackles on the legs would not prevent violence with the hands were they inclined to have recourse to it; nor should they be constantly treated as if they were merely wild beasts whom it is impossible to tame save by means of privation, heart-breaking toil, and the constant sense of utter degradation. How can men be redeemed—reclaimed—reformed by such treatment as this? Let punishment be terrible—not horrible. It is monstrous to endeavour to render the criminal more obstinate—to make the dangerous one more ferocious—to crush in the soul every inducement to amend—to convert vice into hardened recklessness. The tortures of semi-starvation and overwhelming toil, and the system of retaining men's minds in a state of moral abasement and degradation in their own eyes, will never lead to reform. When at Macquarie Harbour, or at Norfolk Island, I have often thought how comparatively easy it would be to reclaim even the very worst among the convicts. Teach them practically that while there is life there is hope,—that it is never too late to repent,—that man can show mercy to the greatest sinner, even as God does,—that the most degraded mind may rise from the depths of its abasement,—that society seeks reformation and prevention in respect to crime, and not vengeance,—that the Christian religion, in a word, exists in the heart as well as in a book. But what sentiments do the convicts entertain? They are taught, by oppressive treatment, to lose sight of their own turpitude, and therefore to consider that all mankind is bent on inflicting a demoniac vengeance upon them;—they look upon the authorities as their persecutors;—they begin to fancy that they are worms which are justified in turning on those who tread them under foot;—they swear, and blaspheme, and talk obscenely, merely because there is no earthly solace left them save in hardening their own hearts against all kindly sympathies and emotions;—they receive the Word of God with suspicion, because man does not practically help them to a belief in the divine assurance relative to the efficacy of repentance;—they are compelled by terrific and unceasing hardships to look upon the tears of a contrite heart as the proofs of moral weakness:—and, in a word, they study how to avoid reflections which can lead, so far as they can see, to no beneficial end. They therefore welcome hardness of heart, obstinacy, and recklessness of disposition as an actual means of escape from thoughts which would, under favourable circumstances, lead to moral amendment and reformation.

"You may be surprised to hear such ideas from my lips; but I have pondered much and often upon this subject. And if ever these words which I am now uttering to you, Henry Holford, should find their way into print,—if ever my narrative, with its various reflections, should go forth to the world,—be you well assured that these ideas will set people thinking on the grand point—whether society punishes to prevent crime and to reclaim the offender, or merely to avenge itself upon him?

"My own prospects were gloomy enough. My life was to be passed in exile, misery, and torture. I loathed my associates. They took all possible pains to tease and annoy each other. They converted a beautiful spot—one of the loveliest islands in the world—into a perfect hell upon earth;—and seemed determined to supply any deficiency which the authorities had left in the sum of our unhappiness. They concocted various schemes of mischief, and then the most hardened would betray their comrades merely for the pleasure of seeing them flogged! I never shall forget a convict saying to me one day, 'I doubt the existence of a God; but I wish, if there is one, that he would take away my life, for I am so very miserable. I have only six years more to serve; and I am determined either to escape, or to murder some one and get hanged for it.'—This man's name was Anson; and from that moment he and I had frequent conversations together relative to an escape from the island. But how few were our hopes? Surrounded by the ocean—pent up in so narrow a space, as it were—so distant from all other lands—fearful to confide in our companions—and unable to carry our scheme into effect without assistance, we were frequently induced to give it up in despair.

"Not very far from the Commandant's house was a singular little cave, hollowed in the rugged limestone that forms two low hills,—the flat and the reef on the south of the island. This cave was near a lime-kiln, and was concealed by a stone drawn over its mouth. I had been nearly eighteen months on the island, (during which time, as I before said, Stephens was not sent to join the gangs; and therefore I concluded that he either perished in Australia, or effected his escape to Europe,)—eighteen months, I say, had elapsed, when Anson and I were one day at work in the lime-kiln, with a small gang. When the mid-day meal-time came, he and I strolled apart from the rest; and none of the sentries took any notice of us, because escape from that point in the broad day-light was impossible. As we were walking along and conversing, we discovered the cave. This circumstance gave a new impulse to our ideas, and to our hopes of an escape; and a few days afterwards, we put our plan into execution. We enlisted two other convicts in the scheme,—two men in whom we imagined that more confidence was to be placed than in any of the rest. By their aid we contrived to purloin at dusk a sack of biscuits; and this we conveyed to the cave. On the next night one of our new accomplices contrived to rob a small house of entertainment for seamen, of three suits of sailors' clothes; and these were conveyed to the cave. Our plans were now all matured. A small decked yacht, cutter-rigged, and belonging to the Commandant, lay close by the shore; and we knew that there were only a man and a boy on board at that time. Our project was a desperate one; but the risk was worth running, seeing the result to be gained—namely, our freedom. When our arrangements were completed, we all four one evening absconded as we were returning home from the day's toils, and took refuge in the cave. No time was to be lost. About midnight, Anson and I swam off to the yacht, contrived to get on board, seized each a windlass-bar, and, descending to the cabin, mastered the man and the boy. We bound them in such a way that they could not leave their hammocks; and then we fastened down the hatchway to drown their cries in case they should shout for assistance. We next lowered the little skiff, and returned to land. Our companions joined us, with the bag of biscuit and the clothes, at a point previously agreed upon; and we all succeeded in reaching the cutter in safety. Then we set sail; and, favoured by the darkness of the night, got clear away without having excited on shore a suspicion that the yacht had moved from its moorings.

"As we had conjectured, there was very little provision on board; for the Commandant never used the yacht for more than a few hours' trip at a time. We had therefore done wisely to provide the biscuit; but there was not two days' supply of meat on board. We accordingly steered for the back of Philip Island, which we knew to abound in pigs and goats, and to be uninhabited by man. Anson and another of our companions went on shore with fire-arms, which we had found in the cutter; and within two hours after day-light they shot four pigs and thirteen goats. Myself and the other convict, who remained on board to take care of the vessel and guard the seaman and the boy, caught several king-fish and rock-cod. We were thus well provisioned; and another trip to the shore filled our water-casks. We next proposed to the seaman and boy either to join us, or to take the skiff and return to Norfolk Island as best they might. They preferred the latter offer; and we accordingly suffered them to depart, after compelling the sailor to exchange his clothes for one of our convict suits; so that we had now a proper garb each. In their presence we had talked of running for New Caledonia—an Island to the north of Norfolk Island; but the moment they were gone, we set sail for New Zealand, which is precisely in a contrary direction—being to the south of Norfolk Island. Our craft was but little better than a cockle-boat: it was, however, decked; fine weather prevailed; and moreover, it was better to die by drowning than perish by the gradual tortures of a penal settlement.

"We were in sight of New Zealand, when a fearful storm came on suddenly at an early hour on the thirteenth morning after we had quitted Norfolk Island. A tremendous sea broke over our little craft, and washed poor Anson over-board. The other two convicts and myself did all we could to save the vessel, and run her into a bay which we now descried in the distance; but our inexperience in nautical matters was put to a severe test. When our condition was apparently hopeless, and we expected that the sea would swallow us up, a large bark hove in sight. We made signals of distress; and the vessel steered towards us. But a mountainous wave struck the stern of the cutter, and stove in her timbers. She immediately began to fill. We cut away the boom, and clung to it as to a last hope. The vessel went down; and, small as it was, it formed a vortex which for a few moments sucked us under, spar and all. But we rose again to the surface, clinging desperately to the boom. Suddenly one of my comrades uttered a fearful cry—a cry of such wild agony that it rings in my ears every time I think of that horrible incident. I glanced towards him: the water was for an instant tinged with blood—a shark had bitten off one of the wretched man's legs! Oh! what an agony of fear I experienced then. The poor creature continued to shriek in an appalling manner for a few seconds: then he loosened his hold upon the spar, and disappeared in the raging element. My only surviving companion and myself exchanged looks of unutterable horror.

"We were drifting rapidly in the direction of the bark, which on its side was advancing towards us. When within hail, it lowered a boat. But I was destined to be the only survivor of the four convicts who had escaped from Norfolk Island. When only a few yards from the boat, my companion suddenly relaxed his hold upon the spar, and sank with a loud cry—to rise no more. The water was not tinged with blood—and therefore I do not suppose that he was attacked by a shark: most probably a sudden cramp seized him;—but, whatever the cause, he perished! I was dragged in an exhausted state into the boat, and was speedily safe on board the bark.

"The vessel was a trading one, and bound for Hobart Town, whence it was to sail for England. I gave so plausible an account of the shipwrecked cutter, that the real truth was not suspected, especially as I was attired in a sailor's dress; and as the bark was not to remain many days at Hobart Town, where, moreover, I was not known, I entertained the most sanguine hopes of being able to ensure my safe return to England. In three weeks,—after encountering much bad weather—we entered the Derwent; and, taking in a pilot, were carried safe up to Sullivan's Cove.

"Hobart Town is the capital of Van Diemen's Land, and is beautifully placed on the banks of an estuary called the Derwent. The streets are spacious: the houses are built of brick; and the roofs, covered with shingles, have the appearance of being slated. Mount Wellington rises behind the town to the height of 4000 feet, and is almost entirely clothed with forests. There is in Hobart Town a spacious House of Correction for females: it is called the Factory, and contained at that time about two hundred and fifty prisoners. They were employed in picking and spinning wool, and in washing for the Hospital, Orphan-School, and other institutions. The women were dressed in a prison garb, and had their hair cut close, which they naturally considered a grievous infliction of tyranny. When they misbehaved themselves, they were put into solitary confinement; and I heard that many of them had gone raving mad while enduring that horrible mental torture. I saw a chain-gang of a hundred and ten convicts, employed in raising a causeway across a muddy flat in the Derwent: they looked miserably unhealthy, pale, and emaciated, being half-starved, over-worked, and compelled to drink very bad water. The Government-House is a fine building, on the banks of the Derwent, and about a mile from the town. The Penitentiary at Hobart Town contains about six hundred prisoners, and is the principal receptacle for newly-arrived convicts. They are sent out in gangs, under overseers and guards, to work on the roads, or as carpenters, builders, sawyers, or masons, in the various departments.

"After remaining almost a fortnight at Hobart Town, the bark sailed for England, by way of Cape Horn; and I was now relieved from all fears of detection—at least for the present. As I have spoken of the condition of the female convicts in Hobart Town, I may as well give you some account of how transportation affects women; for you may be sure that I heard enough of that subject both at Sydney and at Macquarie Harbour. A female-convict ship is fitted up on precisely the same plan as that of the men, with the addition of shelves whereon to stow away the tea-crockery. The women's rations are the same as the men's, with the extra comforts of tea and sugar. This they have for breakfast, and oatmeal for supper. No guard of soldiers is required on board: nor is there a bulk-head across the upper deck in mid-ships. Instead of captains of the vessel, there are matrons appointed by the surgeon to take care of the morals of the rest; and these matrons are usually old brothel-keepers or procuresses, who know how to feign a sanctity which produces a favourable impression in their behalf. Women convicts are dreadfully quarrelsome; and their language is said to be more disgusting and filthy than that of the men. However vigilant the surgeon may be, it is impossible altogether to prevent intercourse between the females and the sailors; and it often happens that some of the fair ones, on their arrival in the colony, are in a way to increase the Australian population. Perhaps the surgeon himself may take a fancy to one or two of the best-looking; and these are sure to obtain great indulgences—such as being appointed nurses to the sick, or being permitted to remain on the sick-list throughout the voyage, which is an excuse for allowing them wine and other little comforts. The women always speak to and of each other as ladies; and the old procuresses, when chosen as matrons, are treated with the respectful Mrs. Thus it is always, 'Ladies, come for'ard for your pork;' or 'Ladies, come up for your biscuit;' or 'Ladies, the puddings are cooked.' Of an evening they dance or sing,—and as often quarrel and fight. This cannot be wondered at, when it is remembered that there is no attempt at classification; and women who may have been chaste in person, though criminal in other respects, are compelled to herd with prostitutes of all degrees, from the lowest trull that skulks in the courts leading out of Fleet Street to the fashionable nymph who displays her charms at the theatre. The very chastity of a woman who has been sentenced perhaps for robbing furnished lodgings, or plundering her master in her capacity of servant, or for committing a forgery, is made a reproach to her by the prostitutes and old procuresses; and her life is miserable. Moreover, it is next to impossible that she can escape a contamination which prepares her for a life of profligacy when she reaches the colony.

"Before the female convict-ship leaves the Thames, numbers of old procuresses and brothel-keepers go on board to take leave of the girls with whom they are acquainted. These hags, dressed out in their gayest garb, and pretending to be overwhelmed with grief (while they really are with gin), represent themselves to be the mothers or aunts of the 'poor dear creatures' who have got into trouble, and assure the surgeon that their so-called daughters or nieces were most excellent girls and bore exemplary characters previous to their present 'misfortune.' The surgeon—if a novice, or a humane man—believes the tale, and is sure to treat with kindness the 'poor creatures' thus recommended to him. About twenty years ago a Religious Society in London sent out, in an emigrant ship, twelve 'reclaimed unfortunate girls,' with the hope that they might form good matrimonial connexions among the free settlers in the colony; there always having been—especially at first—a great dearth of European females in Australia. These girls were called the Twelve Apostles; and all England rang with the good work which had been accomplished by the Religious Society. But on the arrival of the Twelve Apostles at Sydney, seven of them were found to be in the family way by the sailors; and the others immediately entered on a course of unbounded licentiousness.[22]

"A few days before the female convict-vessel arrives at Sydney, the women—old and young—busy themselves in getting ready their finery for landing. The debarkation of female convicts always takes place with great effect. The prostitutes appear in their most flaunting attire; and many of them have gold ornaments about them. They are then sent to the Paramatta Factory. This establishment cannot be looked on as a place of punishment—nor as a place of reformation. The inmates are well fed, and are put to no labour. There is an extensive garden, in which they can walk at pleasure. Some of them are allotted to free settlers requiring servants; but the grand hope of the female convict is to marry. This prospect is materially aided by the fact that both free settlers and ticket-of-leave convicts are allowed to seek for help-mates in the Factory. When they call for that purpose, the fair penitents are drawn up in a row; and the wife-seeking individual inspects them as a general does his army, or a butcher the sheep in Smithfield Market. If he fancies one of the candidates, he beckons her from the rank, and they retire to a distance to converse. Should a matrimonial arrangement be made, the business is soon finished by the aid of a clergyman; but if no amicable understanding is come to, the nymph returns to the rank, and the swain chooses another—and so on, until the object of his visit is accomplished. So anxious are the unmarried free settlers or the ticket-of-leave convicts to change their single state of blessedness, and so ready are the fair sex to meet their wishes, that few women whose husbands die remain widows a couple of days; some not more than four-and-twenty hours. A few years before I was in the colony, an old settler saw a convict-girl performing penance on a market-day, with her gown-tail drawn over her head, for drunkenness and disorderly conduct in the Factory. He walked straight up to her—regardless of the hootings of the crowd—and proposed marriage. She was candid enough to confess to him that she was five months gone in the family way by a master to whom she had been allotted ere she returned to the Factory; but the amorous swain, who was nearly sixty, was so much struck by her black eyes and plump shape, that he expressed his readiness to take her 'for better or worse;' and she had not left the place of punishment an hour, ere she was married to one of the richest settlers in the colony.[23]

"I will tell you one more anecdote relative to Australian marriages. A very handsome woman was transported for shop-lifting—her third offence of the kind. She left a husband behind her in England. On her arrival at Sydney she was allotted to an elderly gentleman, a free settler, and who, being a bachelor, sought to make her his mistress. She, however, resisted his overtures, hoping that he would make her his wife, as he was not aware that she had a husband in her native country. Time wore on, he urgent—she obstinate,—he declining matrimonial bonds. At length she received a black-edged letter from her mother in England; and upon being questioned by her master, she stated 'that its contents made a great alteration in her circumstances.' More she would not tell him. He was afraid of losing his handsome servant; and agreed to marry her. They were united accordingly. When the nuptial knot was indissolubly tied, he begged his beloved wife to explain the nature of the black-edged letter. 'There is now no need for any further mystery,' she said, 'The truth is, I could not marry you before, because I had a husband living in England. That black-edged letter conveyed to me the welcome news that he was hanged five months ago at the Old Bailey; and thus nothing now stands in the way of our happiness.'—And that woman made the rich settler a most exemplary wife.

"I have now given you an insight into the morals of the female, as well as those of the male convicts; and you may also perceive that while transportation is actually a means of pleasing variety of scene and habits to the woman, it is an earthly hell to the man. I know that transportation is spoken of as something very light—a mere change of climate—amongst those thieves in England who have never yet crossed the water; but they are woefully mistaken! Transportation was once a trivial punishment, when all convicts were allotted to settlers, and money would purchase tickets-of-leave; or when a convict's wife, if he had one, might go out in the next ship with all the swag which his crimes had produced, and on her arrival in the colony apply for her husband to be allotted to her as her servant, by which step he became a free man, opened a public-house or some kind of shop, and made a fortune. Those were glorious times for convicts; but all that system has been changed. Now you have Road-Gangs, and Hulk-Gangs, and Quarrying-Gangs,—men who work in chains, and who cannot obtain a sufficiency of food! There is also Norfolk Island—a Garden of Eden in natural loveliness, rendered an earthly hell by human occupation. Oh! let not the opinion prevail that transportation is no punishment; let not those who are young in the ways of iniquity, pursue their career under the impression that exile to Australia is nothing more than a pleasant change of scene! They will too soon discover how miserably they are mistaken; and when they feel the galling chain upon their ankles,—when they find themselves toiling amidst the incessant damps of Macquarie, or on the hard roads of Van Diemen's Land, or in the quarries of Norfolk Island,—when they are labouring in forests where every step may arouse a venomous snake whose bite is death, or where a falling tree may crush them beneath its weight,—when they are exposed to the brutality of overseers, or the still more intolerable cruelty of their companions,—when they sleep in constant dread of being murdered by their fellow-convicts, and awake only to the dull monotony of a life of intense and heart-breaking labour,—then will they loathe their very existence, and dare all the perils of starvation, or the horrors of cannibalism, in order to escape from those scenes of ineffable misery!

"But I need say no more upon this subject. The bark, in which I worked my passage to Europe, reached England in safety; and I was once more at large in my native country. Yes—I was free to go whithersoever I would—and to avenge myself on him who had betrayed me to justice! The hope of some day consummating that vengeance had never deserted me from the moment I was sentenced in the Central Criminal Court. It had animated me throughout all the miseries, the toils, and the hardships which I have related to you. It inspired me with courage to dare the dangers of an escape from Macquarie: its effect was the same when I resolved upon quitting Norfolk Island. I have once had my mortal foe within my reach; but my hand dealt not the blow with sufficient force. It will not fail next time. I know that vengeance is a crime; but I cannot subdue those feelings which prompt me to punish the man whose perfidy sent me into exile. In all other respects I am reformed—completely reformed. Not that the authorities in Australia or Norfolk Island have in any way contributed to this moral change which has come over me: no—my own meditations and reflections have induced me to toil in order to earn an honest livelihood. I will never steal again: I will die sooner. I would also rather die by my own hand than return to the horrors of Macquarie or Norfolk Island. But my vengeance—Oh! I must gratify my vengeance;—and I care not what may become of me afterwards!"

Crankey Jem then related so much of his adventures with the gipsies as did not involve a betrayal of any of their secrets, and concluded his recital by a concise account of his sudden meeting with, and attack upon, the Resurrection Man at a certain house in St. Giles's.

-----

Footnote 19:

This episode is founded on fact. The newspapers of 1840, or 1841, will in this instance furnish the type of Mr. Robert Cuffin in the person of a certain Reverend who obtained much notoriety at Rickmansworth.

Footnote 20:

Londoners.

Footnote 21:

Countrymen.

Footnote 22:

Fact.

Footnote 23:

Fact.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXCII. THE MINT.—THE FORTY THIEVES

Reader, if you stroll down that portion of the Southwark Bridge Road which lies between Union Street and Great Suffolk Street, you will perceive, midway, and on your left hand, a large mound of earth heaped on an open space doubtless, intended for building-ground.

At the southern extremity of this mound (on which all the offal from the adjacent houses is thrown, and where vagabond boys are constantly collected) is the entrance into an assemblage of miserable streets, alleys, and courts, forming one of the vilest, most dangerous, and most demoralised districts of this huge metropolis.

The houses are old, gloomy, and sombre. Some of them have the upper part, beginning with the first floor, projecting at least three feet over the thoroughfares—for we cannot say over the pavement. Most of the doors stand open, and reveal low, dark, and filthy passages, the mere aspect of which compels the passer-by to get into the middle of the way, for fear of being suddenly dragged into those sinister dens, which seem fitted for crimes of the blackest dye.

This is no exaggeration.

Even in the day-time one shudders at the cut-throat appearance of the places into the full depths of whose gloom the eye cannot entirely penetrate. But, by night, the Mint,—for it is of this district that we are now writing,—is far more calculated to inspire the boldest heart with alarm, than the thickest forest or the wildest heath ever infested by banditti.

The houses in the Mint give one an idea of those dens in which murder may be committed without the least chance of detection. And yet that district swarms with population. But of what kind are its inhabitants? The refuse and the most criminal of the metropolis.

There people follow trades as a blind to avert suspicions relative to their real calling: for they are actually housebreakers or thieves themselves, or else the companions and abettors of such villains.

In passing through the mazes of the Mint—especially in Mint Street itself—you will observe more ill-looking fellows and revolting women in five minutes than you will see either on Saffron Hill or in Bethnal Green in an hour. Take the entire district that is bounded on the north by Peter Street, on the south by Great Suffolk Street, on the east by Blackman Street and High Street, and on the west by the Southwark Bridge Road,—take this small section of the metropolis, and believe us when we state that within those limits there is concentrated more depravity in all its myriad phases, than many persons could suppose to exist in the entire kingdom.

The Mint was once a sanctuary, like Whitefriars; and, although the law has deprived it of its ancient privileges, its inhabitants still maintain them, by a tacit understanding with each other, to the extent of their power. Thus, if a villain, of whom the officers of justice are in search, takes refuge at a lodging in the Mint, the landlord will keep his secret in spite of every inducement. The only danger which he might incur would be at the hands of the lowest description of buzgloaks, dummy-hunters, area-sneaks, and vampers who dwell in that district.

There is no part of Paris that can compare with the Mint in squalor, filth, or moral depravity;—no—not even the street in the Island of the City, where Eugene Sue has placed his celebrated tapis-franc.

Let those who happen to visit the Mint, after reading this description thereof, mark well the countenances of the inhabitants whom they will meet in that gloomy labyrinth. Hardened ruffianism characterises the men;—insolent, leering, and shameless looks express the depravity of the women;—the boys have the sneaking, shuffling manner of juvenile thieves;—the girls, even of a tender age, possess the brazen air of incipient profligacy.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening when the Resurrection Man, wrapped in a thick and capacious pea-coat, the collar of which concealed all the lower part of his countenance, turned hastily from the Southwark Bridge Road into Mint Street.

The weather was piercingly cold, and the sleet was peppering down with painful violence: the Resurrection Man accordingly buried his face as much as possible in the collar of his coat, and neither looked to the right nor left as he proceeded on his way.

To this circumstance may be attributed the fact that one so cautious and wary as he, should now fail to observe that his motions were watched and his steps dogged by a lad whose countenance was also well concealed by a high collar which was drawn up to his ears.

In order to avoid unnecessary mystification, we may as well observe that this youth was Henry Holford.

The Resurrection Man pursued his way along Mint Street, and suddenly turned into a small court on the left-hand side. There he knocked at a door in a peculiar manner, whistling a single sharp shrill note at the same time; and in another moment Holford saw him enter the house.

"Well, Mr. Tidkins," said a boy of about fourteen, who had opened the door to admit the formidable individual with whom he was evidently well acquainted: "a preshus cold night, arn't it?"

"Very, my lad," answered the Resurrection Man, turning down his collar, so that the light of the candle which the boy held, gleamed upon his cadaverous countenance. "Is the Bully Grand at home?"

A reply in the affirmative was given; and the boy led the way, up a narrow and dilapidated staircase, to a large room where a great number of youths, whose ages varied from twelve to eighteen, were seated at a table, drinking and smoking.

The organisation of this society of juvenile reprobates requires a detailed notice.

The association consisted of thirty-nine co-equals and one chief who was denominated the Bully Grand. The fraternity was called The Forty Thieves;—whether in consequence of the founders having accidentally amounted to precisely that number, or whether with the idea of emulating the celebrated heroes of the Arabian tale, we cannot determine.

The society had, however, been established for upwards of thirty years at the time of which we are writing,—and is in existence at this present moment.

The rules of the association may thus be briefly summed up:—The society consists of Forty Members, including the Bully Grand. Candidates for admission are eligible at twelve years of age. When a member reaches the age of eighteen, he must retire from the association. This rule does not, however, apply to the Bully Grand, who is not eligible for that situation until he has actually reached the age of eighteen, and has been a member for at least four years. Each candidate for membership must be guaranteed as to eligibility and honour (that honour which is necessary amongst thieves) by three members of good standing in the society; and should any member misconduct himself, or withhold a portion of any booty which he may acquire, his guarantees are responsible for him. The Bully Grand must find twelve guarantees amongst the oldest members. His power is in most respects absolute; and the greatest deference is paid to him.

The modes of proceeding are as follow:—The metropolis is divided into twelve districts distinguished thus:—1. The Regent's Park; 2. Pentonville; 3. Hoxton; 4. Finsbury; 5. City; 6. Tower Hamlets; 7. Westminster; 8. Pimlico; 9. Hyde Park; 10. Grosvenor Square; 11. Lambeth; 12. The Borough. Three members are allotted to each district, and are changed in due rotation every day. Thus the three who take the Regent's Park district on a Monday, pass to the Pentonville district on Tuesday, the Hoxton district on Wednesday, and so on. Thus thirty-six members are every day employed in the district-service. The Bully Grand and the three others in the meantime attend to the disposal of the stolen property, and to the various business of the fraternity. In every district there is a public-house, or boozing-ken, in the interest of the association; and to the landlords of these flash cribs is the produce of each day's work consigned in the evening. The house in the Mint is merely a place of meeting once a fortnight, a residence for the Bully Grand, and the central depôt to which articles are conveyed from the care of the district boozing-kens.

The minor regulations and bye-laws may be thus summed up:—Of the three members allotted to each district, the oldest member acts as the chief, and guides the plan of proceedings according to his discretion. Should any member be proved to have secreted booty, his guarantees must pay the value of it; and with them rests the punishment of the defaulter. General meetings take place at the head-quarters in the Mint on the first and third Wednesday in every month; but if the Bully Grand wishes to call an extraordinary assembly, or to summon any particular member or members to his presence, he must leave notices to that effect with the landlords of the district houses-of-call. The members are to effect no robberies by violence, nor to break into houses: their proceedings must be effected by sleight of hand, cunning, and artifice. All disputes must be referred to the Bully Grand for settlement. The booty must be converted into money, and the cash divided fairly between all the members every fortnight, a certain percentage being allotted by way of salary to the Bully Grand.

Such are the principles upon which the association of the Forty Thieves is based. Every precaution is adopted, by means of the guarantees, to prevent the admission of unsuitable members, and to ensure the fidelity and honour of those who belong to the fraternity. When a member "gets into trouble," persons of apparent respectability come forward to give the lad a character; so that magistrates or judges are quite bewildered by the assurances that "it must be a mistake;" "that the prisoner is an honest hard-working boy, belonging to poor but respectable parents in the country;" or "that so convinced is the witness of the lad's innocence, that he will instantly take him into his service if the magistrate will discharge him." While a member remains in prison previous to trial, the funds of the association provide him with the best food allowed to enter the gaol; and, if he be condemned to a term of incarceration in the House of Correction, he looks forward to the banquet that will be given in the Mint to celebrate the day of his release. Moreover, a member does not lose his right to a share of the funds realised during his imprisonment. Thus every inducement is adopted to prevent members who "get into trouble" from peaching against their comrades, or making any revelations calculated to compromise the safety of the society.

It was a fortnightly meeting of the society when the Resurrection Man visited the house in the Mint, on the occasion of which we were ere now speaking.

The Forty Thieves were all gathered round a board formed of several rude deal tables placed together, and literally groaning beneath the weight of pewter-pots, bottles, jugs, &c.

The tallow-candles burnt like stars seen through a mist, so dense was the tobacco-smoke in the apartment.

At the upper end of the table sate the Bully Grand—a tall, well-dressed, good-looking young man, with a profusion of hair, but no whiskers, and little of that blueish appearance on the chin which denotes a beard. His aspect was therefore even more juvenile than was consistent with his age, which was about twenty-five. He possessed a splendid set of teeth, of which he seemed very proud; and his delicate white hand, which had never been applied to any harder work than picking pockets, was waved gently backward and forward when he spoke.

Around the table there were fine materials for the study of a phrenologist. Such a concatenation of varied physiognomies was not often to be met with; because none of the charities nor amenities of life were there delineated;—those countenances were indices only of vice in all its grades and phases.

The Resurrection Man was welcomed with a hum of applause on the part of the members, and with out-stretched hands by the Bully Grand near whom he was invited to take a seat.

"The business of the evening is over, Mr. Tidkins," said Mr. Tunks,—for so the Bully Grand was named; "and we are now deep in the pleasures of the meeting, as you see. Help yourself! There are spirits of all kinds, and pipes or cigars—whichever you prefer."

"Have you any information to give me?" inquired Tidkins in a low tone.

"Plenty—but not at this moment, Mr. Tidkins. Take a glass of something to dispel the cold; and by-and-bye we will talk on matters of business. There is plenty of time; and many of my young friends here would no doubt be proud to give you a specimen of their vocal powers. Let me see—who's turn is it?"

"Leary Lipkins's, sir," whispered a boy who sate near the Bully Grand.

"Oh! Leary Lipkins—is it?" said Tunks aloud. "Now, brother Lipkins, the company are waiting for an opportunity to drink to your health and song."

Mr. Lipkins—a sharp-looking, hatchet-faced, restless-eyed youth of about sixteen—did not require much pressing ere he favoured his audience with the following sample of vocal melody:—

THE SIGN OF THE FIDDLE.

There's not in all London a tavern so gay, As that where the knowing ones meet of a day: So long as a farthing remains to my share, I'll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere.

Yet it is not that comforts there only combine, Nor because it dispenses good brandy and wine; 'Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar— Oh! no—'tis a something more cozie by far!

'Tis that friends of the light-fingered craft are all nigh, Who'd drink till the cellar itself should be dry, And teach you to feel how existence may please, When pass'd in the presence of cronies like these.

Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well; When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest, And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest.

"Bravo!" "Brayvo!" "Bra-ah-vo!" echoed on all sides, when this elegant effusion was brought to a close.

The Bully Grand then rose, and spoke in the following manner:—

"Gentlemen, in proposing the health of our excellent brother Leary Lipkins, I might spare eulogy, his merits being so well known to us all. But I feel that there are times when it is necessary to expatiate somewhat on the excellent qualities of the leading members of our honourable Society—in order to encourage an emulative feeling in the breasts of our younger brethren. Such an occasion is the present one, when we are all thus sociably assembled. Gentlemen, you all know Leary Lipkins! (Cheers, and cries of "We do! we do!") You all know that he is indeed leary in every sense of the word. (Hear! hear!) He can see through the best bit of broad cloth that ever covered a swell's pocket. There seems to be a sort of magnetic attraction between his fingers and a gold watch in the fob of a Bond Street lounger. (Cheers.) Talk of mesmerism! why—Leary Lipkins can send a gentleman into a complete state of coma as he walks along the streets, so that he never can possibly feel Leary's hands in his pockets. Gentlemen, I hold Leary Lipkins up to you as an excellent example; and beg to propose his very good health."

The toast was drunk with "three times three."

Mr. Lipkins returned thanks in what a newspaper-reporter would term "a neat speech;" and he then exercised the usual privilege of calling upon a particular individual for a song.

A certain Master Tripes Todkinson accordingly indulged his companions in the following manner:—

THE COMPASSIONATE LADY AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP.

"Pray, who's the little boy that is dancing so nimbly? Come, Mary, bring a halfpenny down.—" "Please, ma'am, I'm the feller as swept your chimbley, And I'm very much obleeged for the brown.—"

"Alas! how his schooling has been neglected! But perhaps his kind father's dead?—" "No, ma'am; he's a tinker as is wery much respected And this mornin' he's drunk in bed.—"

"Perchance 'tis a motherless child that they've fixed on To dance. Does your mamma live still?—" "Yes, ma'am; at this moment she's stayin' at Brixton, Vith a gen'leman as keeps a mill.—"[24]

"Poor child, he is miserably clad! How shocking! Not to give him some clothes were a sin!—" "Thank'ee, ma'am; but I doesn't want no shoe nor stocking, I'd rayther have a quartern o' gin!"

The Bully Grand proposed the health Of Master Tripes Todkinson, in a speech which was mightily applauded; and Master Tripes Todkinson, having duly returned thanks, called on Master Bandy-legged Diggs to continue the vocal harmony.

This invitation was responded to with as much readiness as Master Diggs would have displayed in easing an elderly gentleman in a crowd of his purse; and the air with which he favoured his audience ran thus:—

THE LAST OATH.

Upon the drop he turned To swear a parting oath; He cursed the parson and Jack Ketch, And he coolly damned them both.

He listened to the hum Of the crowds that gathered nigh; And he carelessly remarked, "What a famous man am I!"

Beside the scaffold's foot His mistress piped her eye: She waved to him her dirty rag, And whimpering said, "Good bye!"

She mourned the good old times That ne'er could come again, When he brought her home a well-lined purse;— But all her tears were vain!

Poor Jack was soon turned off, And gallantly was hung: There was a sigh in every breast, A groan on every tongue.

Go—gaze upon his corse, And remember then you see The bravest robber that has been, Or ever more shall be!

We need scarcely observe that this chant was received with as much favour as the preceding ones. The Resurrection Man was, however, growing impatient; for the reader doubtless comprehends enough of his character to be well aware that Tidkins was not one who loved pleasure better than business. He looked at his watch, and cast a significant glance towards the Bully Grand.

"What o'clock is it, Mr. Tidkins?" inquired that great functionary.

"Half-past ten," was the answer.

"Well, I will devote my attention to you in a few minutes," said Tunks. "You may rest perfectly easy—I have obtained information on every point in which you are interested. But—hark! Shuffling Simon is going to speak!"

A lad of about seventeen, who had a weakness in the joints of his knees, and walked in a fashion which had led to the nickname mentioned by the Bully Grand, rose from his seat, and proposed the health of Mr. Tunks, the chief of the society of the Forty Thieves.

Then followed a tremendous clattering of bottles and glasses as the company filled up bumpers in order to pay due honour to the toast; and every one, save the Grand himself, rose. The health was drunk with rounds of applause: a pause of a few moments ensued; and then Shuffling Simon commenced the following complimentary song, in the repetition of which all the other adherents of the Chief vociferously joined:—

PROSPER THE GRAND.

Prosper our Bully Grand, Great Tunks, our noble Grand; Prosper the Grand Send him good swag enough, Heart made of sterling stuff, Long to be up to snuff;— Prosper the Grand.

Save him from all mishaps, Scatter blue-bottle traps Throughout the land Confound the busy beak, Flourish the area-sneak; In Tunks a chief we seek;— Prosper the Grand!

The best lush on the board To Tunks's health be poured By all the band! May he continue free, Nor ever tread-mill see; And all shall shout with glee, Prosper the Grand!'

It was really extremely refreshing for the Resurrection Man to contemplate the deep manifestation of loyalty with which the thirty-nine thieves sang the preceding air.

Nor less was it an imposing spectacle when the object of that adoration rose from his seat, waved his right hand, and poured forth his gratitude in a most gracious speech.

This ceremony being accomplished, the Grand (what a pity it was that so elegant and elevated a personage had retained his unworthy patronymic of Tunks!) took a candle from the table, and conducted the Resurrection Man down stairs into a back room, which the Chief denominated his "private parlour."

"Now for your information," said the Resurrection Man, somewhat impatiently. "In the first place, have you discovered any thing concerning Crankey Jem Cuffin?"

"My emissaries have been successful in every instance," answered Tunks, with a complacent smile. "A man exactly corresponding with your description of Crankey Jem dwells in an obscure court in Drury Lane. Here is the address."

"Any tidings of Margaret Flathers?" inquired Tidkins.

"She has married a young man who answers to your description of Skilligalee; and they keep a small chandlery-shop in Pitfield Street, Hoxton Old Town. The name of Mitchell is over the door."

"Your lads are devilish sharp fellows, Bully Grand," said the Resurrection Man, approvingly.

"With thirty-six emissaries all over London every day, it is not so very difficult to obtain such information as you required," returned Tunks. "Moreover, you paid liberally in advance; and the boys will always be glad to serve you."

"Now for the next question," said Tidkins. "Any news of the old man that Tomlinson goes to see sometimes?"

"Yes—he lives in a small lodging in Thomas Street, Bethnal Green," was the answer. "There is his address also. His name is Nelson:—you best know whether it is his right one or not. That is no business of mine. Mr. Tomlinson regularly calls on him every Sunday afternoon, and passes some hours with him. The old man never stirs out, and is very unwell."

"Once more I must compliment your boys," exclaimed Tidkins, overjoyed with this intelligence. "Have you been able to learn any thing concerning Katherine Wilmot?"

"There I have also succeeded," replied Mr. Tunks. "My boys discovered that, after the trial of Katherine, she lunched with some friends at an inn in the Old Bailey, and shortly afterwards left in a post-chaise. She was accompanied by an old lady; and the chaise took them to Hounslow."

"And there, I suppose, all traces of them disappear?" said the Resurrection Man, inquiringly.

"Not at all. I sent Leary Lipkins down to Hounslow yesterday; and he discovered that Miss Wilmot is staying at a farm-house belonging to a Mr. and Mrs. Bennet."

"Precisely!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "That Mrs. Bennet was a witness on the trial. I remember reading all about it. She was the sister of the woman whom Reginald Tracy murdered."

"The farm is only a short distance from Hounslow," observed the Bully Grand: "any one in the town can direct you to it. Most probably it was with this Mrs. Bennet that Miss Wilmot travelled in the post-chaise."

"Evidently so," said the Resurrection Man. "But of that no matter. All I required was Katherine Wilmot's address; and you have discovered it. Now for my last question. Have you ascertained whether it will be possible to bribe the clerk of the church where Lord Ravensworth and the Honourable Miss Adeline Enfield were married, to tear out the leaf of the register which contains the entry of that union?"

"I have learnt that the clerk is open to bribery: but he is a cautious man, and will not allow himself to be sounded too deeply in the matter," was the answer.

"Then that business must regard me," observed the Resurrection Man. "You have served me well in all these matters. Twenty pounds I gave you the other day: here are twenty pounds more. Are you satisfied?"

"I have every reason to be pleased with your liberality," returned the Bully Grand, folding up the bank-notes with his delicate fingers. "Have you any further commands at present?"

"Yes," replied the Resurrection Man, after a few moments' consideration: "let one of your lads take a couple of notes for me."

While the Bully Grand proceeded to summon Leary Lipkins, the Resurrection Man seated himself at a desk which there was in the room, and wrote the following note:—

"The news I have just received are rather good than bad. The clerk is open to bribery, but is cautious. I will myself call upon him the day after to-morrow; and I will meet you afterwards, at our usual place of appointment, in the evening between six and seven. But you must find money somehow or another: I am incurring expenses in this matter, and cannot work for nothing. Surely Greenwood will assist you?"

This letter was sealed and addressed to "GILBERT VERNON, ESQ., No.—Stamford Street."

The Resurrection Man then penned another note which ran thus:—

"I have discovered Katherine's address, and shall call upon you the day after to-morrow at nine o'clock in the evening. Remain at home; as you know the importance of the business."

By the time he had concluded his correspondence, the Bully Grand had returned with Leary Lipkins.

"My good lad," said the Resurrection Man, addressing the latter, "here are two notes, which you must deliver this night—this night, mind. The first is addressed; and the person for whom it is intended never retires to bed until very late. He will be up, when you call at the house where he lodges in Stamford Street. Give the letter into his own hand. You must then proceed to Golden Lane; and in the third court on the right-hand side of the way, and in the fourth house on the left-hand in that court, an old woman lives. You must knock till she answers you; and give her this second letter. I actually do not know her name, although I have dealings with her at present."

Leary Lipkins promised to fulfil these directions, and immediately departed to execute them.

Shortly afterwards the Resurrection Man took his leave of the Bully Grand, and left the head-quarters of the Forty Thieves.

Henry Holford, who had never lost sight of the door of that house since he had seen the Resurrection Man enter it, and who had remained concealed in the shade of an overhanging frontage opposite for more than two hours, resumed his task of dogging that formidable individual.

The Resurrection Man passed down Mint Street, into the Borough, and called a cab from the nearest stand, saying to the driver, "New Church, Bethnal Green."

The moment Tidkins was ensconced within, and the driver was seated on his box, Henry Holford crept softly behind the cab. In that manner he rode unmolested until within a short distance of the place of destination, when he descended, and followed the vehicle on foot.

The cab stopped near the railings that surround the church; and the Resurrection Man, having settled the fare, hurried onwards into Globe Town, Holford still dogging him—but with the utmost caution.

Presently Tidkins struck into a bye-street at the eastern extremity of the Happy Valley (as, our readers will remember, Globe Town is denominated in the gazetteer of metropolitan thieves), and stopped at the door of a house of dilapidated appearance. In a word, this was the very den where we have before seen him conducting his infamous plots, and in the subterranean vaults of which Viola Chichester was imprisoned for a period of three weeks.

Holford saw the Resurrection Man enter this house by the front door communicating with the street. He watched the windows for a few moments, and then perceived a light suddenly appear in the room on the upper floor.

"I have succeeded!" exclaimed Holford, aloud, "the villain lives there! I have traced him to his lurking-hole; and Jem may yet be avenged!"

Then, in order to be enabled to give an accurate description of the house to the returned convict, Holford studied its situation and appearance with careful attention. He observed that it was two storeys high, and that by the side was a dark alley.

At length he was convinced that he should be enabled to find that particular dwelling again, or to direct Crankey Jem to it without the possibility of error; and, rejoicing at being thus enabled to oblige his new friend, the young man commenced his long and weary walk back to Drury Lane.

-----

Footnote 24:

The tread-mill.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXCIII. ANOTHER VISIT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE

It was the evening following the one the incidents of which occupied the preceding chapter.

Beneath a sofa in the Ball Room of Buckingham Palace, Henry Holford lay concealed.

It would be a mere repetition of statements made in former portions of this work, were we to describe the means by which the young man obtained access to the most private parts of the royal dwelling. We may, however, observe that he had paid frequent visits to the palace since the occasion when we first saw him enter those sacred precincts at the commencement of January, 1839; and that he was as familiar with the interior of the sovereign's abode, even to its most retired chambers, as any of its numerous inmates.

He had run many risks of discovery; but a species of good fortune seemed to attend upon him in these strange and romantic ventures; and those frequent alarms had never as yet terminated in his detection. Thus he became emboldened in his intrusions; and he now lay beneath the sofa in the Ball Room, with no more apprehension than he would have entertained if some authority in the palace had actually connived at his presence there.

It was nine o'clock in the evening; and the Ball Room was brilliantly illuminated.

But as yet the low-born pot-boy was its sole occupant.

Not long, however, was he doomed to that solitude. By a strange coincidence, the two noble ladies whose conversation had so much interested him on the occasion of his first visit to the palace, entered the room shortly after nine o'clock. He recognised their voices immediately; and he was delighted at their arrival, for their former dialogues had awakened the most lively sentiments of curiosity in his mind. But since his intrusion in January, 1839, he had never seen nor heard them in his subsequent visits to the royal dwelling, until the present occasion; and now, as they advanced through the room together, he held his breath to catch the words that fell from them.

"The dinner-party was tiresome to-day, my dear countess," observed the duchess: "her Majesty did not appear to be in good spirits."

"Alas!" exclaimed the lady thus addressed, "our gracious sovereign's melancholy fits occur at less distant intervals as she grows older."

"And yet her Majesty has every earthly reason to be happy," said the duchess. "The Prince appears to be devotedly attached to her; and the Princess Royal is a sweet babe."

"Worldly prosperity will not always ensure felicity," returned the countess; "and this your grace must have perceived amongst the circle of your acquaintance. Her Majesty is a prey to frequent fits of despondency, which are distressing to the faithful subjects who have the honour to be near the royal person. She will sit for an hour at a time, in moody contemplation of that sweet babe; and her countenance then wears an expression of such profound—such plaintive—such touching melancholy, that I have frequently wept to behold her thus."

"What can be the cause of this intermittent despondency?" inquired the duchess.

"It is constitutional," answered the countess. "The fit comes upon her Majesty at moments when she is surrounded by all the elements of pleasure, happiness, and joy. It is a dark spirit against which no mind, however powerful, can wrestle. The only method of mitigating the violence of its attacks is the bustle of travelling:—then novelty, change of scene, exercise, and the demonstrations of popular devotion seem to relieve our beloved sovereign from the influence of that morbid, moody melancholy."

"I believe that when we conversed upon this topic on a former occasion,—it must be at least two years ago,—your ladyship hinted at the existence of hereditary idiosyncrasies in the Royal Family?" observed the duchess, inquiringly. "Indeed," added her grace, hastily, "I well remember that you alluded to the unfortunate attachment of George the Third for a certain Quakeress——"

"Yes—Hannah Lightfoot, to whom the monarch, when a prince, was privately united," answered the countess. "His baffled love—the necessity which compelled him to renounce one to whom he was devotedly attached—and the constant dread which he entertained lest the secret of this marriage should transpire, acted upon his mind in a manner that subsequently produced those dread results which are matters of history."

"You allude to his madness," said the duchess, with a shudder.

"Yes, your grace—that madness which is, alas! hereditary," replied the countess solemnly. "But George the Third had many—many domestic afflictions. Oh! if you knew all, you would not be surprised that he had lost his reason! The profligacy of some of his children—most of them—was alone sufficient to turn his brain. Many of those instances of profligacy have transpired; and although the public have not been able to arrive at any positive proofs respecting the matters, I can nevertheless assure your grace that such proofs are in existence—and in my possession!"

"Your ladyship once before hinted as much to me; and I must confess that without having any morbid inclination for vulgar scandal, I feel some curiosity in respect to those matters."

"Some day I will place in your hand papers of a fearful import, in connexion with the Royal Family," returned the countess. "Your grace will then perceive that profligacy the most abandoned—crimes the most heinous—vices the most depraved, characterised nearly all the children of George the Third. There is one remarkable fact relative to that prince's marriage with Hannah Lightfoot. The Royal Marriage Act was not passed until thirteen years after this union, and could not therefore set it aside; and yet Hannah Lightfoot was still living when the prince espoused Charlotte Sophia Princess of Mecklenburgh Strelitz in 1761."

"Is this possible?" exclaimed the duchess, profoundly surprised.

"It is possible—it is true!" said the countess emphatically. "In 1772 the Royal Marriage Act[25] was passed, and provided that no member of the Royal Family should contract a marriage without the sovereign's consent. This measure was enacted for several reasons; but principally because the King's two brothers had formed private matrimonial connexions,—the Duke of Cumberland with Mrs. Horton, a widow—and the Duke of Gloucester with the widow of the Earl of Waldegrave."

"The act certainly appears to me most cruel and oppressive," said the duchess; "inasmuch as it interferes with the tenderest affections and most charming of human sympathies—feelings which royalty has in common with all the rest of mankind."

"I cordially agree with your grace," observed the countess. "The law is barbarous—monstrous—revolting; and its evil effects were evidenced by almost every member of the family of George the Third. In the first place, the Prince of Wales (afterwards George the Fourth) was privately united to Mrs. Fitzherbert, at the house of that lady's uncle, Lord Sefton. Fox, Sheridan, and Burke were present at the ceremony, in addition to my mother and several relations of the bride. Mr. Fox handed her into the carriage; and the happy pair proceeded to Richmond, where they passed a week or ten days. Queen Charlotte was made acquainted with the marriage: she sent for her son, and demanded an explanation. The prince avowed the truth. Your grace has, of course, read the discussion which took place in connexion with this subject, in the House of Commons, in 1787. Mr. Rolle, the member for Devonshire, mysteriously alluded to the union: Mr. Fox rose up, and denied it; but from that day forth Mrs. Fitzherbert never spoke to Fox again. Sheridan let the truth escape him:—he said, 'A lady who has been alluded to, is without reproach, and is entitled to the truest and most general respect.' How would Mrs. Fitzherbert have been without reproach, or entitled to respect, if she were not married to the prince? But I have proofs—convincing proofs—that such an union did actually take place, although it was certainly null and void in consequence of the Marriage Act."

"It nevertheless subsisted according to the feelings and inclinations of the parties interested," said the duchess; "and it was based on honour, if on no legal principle."

"Alas!" whispered the countess, casting a rapid glance around; "the word honour must not be mentioned in connexion with the name of George the Fourth. It pains me to speak ill of the ancestors of our lovely queen: but—if we converse on the subject at all—truth must influence our observations. The entire life of George the Fourth was one of profligacy and crime. Often have I marvelled how one possessing a soul so refined as Georgiana, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, could have resigned herself to such a degraded voluptuary—such a low debauchee. Yet she was his Queen of Love, surrounded by her graces, who, however, bore the modern names of Craven, Windham, and Jersey."

"Carlton House has, indeed, beheld strange and varied scenes," said the duchess; "low orgies and voluptuous revels—music floating here—dice rattling there—the refinements of existence in one room, and the most degraded dissipation in another."

"Such was the case," observed the countess. "But let us return to the consequences of the Royal Marriage Act. Rumour has told much in connexion with the coupled names of the Duke of York and Mrs. Clarke—the late King William and Mrs. Jordan; and so well known are these facts that I need not dwell upon them. The matrimonial connexions of the Duke of Sussex—first with Lady Augusta Murray, and afterwards with Lady Cecilia Underwood,[26] are all matters resting upon something more solid than mere conjecture."

"And the Duke of Cumberland—the present King of Hanover?" said the duchess inquiringly.

"It is dangerous to speak of him," whispered the countess; "because it is impossible to utter a word in his favour."

"You surely cannot believe all the tales that have been circulated against him?" exclaimed the duchess, earnestly watching the countenance of her companion, as if to anticipate her reply.

"Does your grace particularly allude to the death of Sellis?" asked the countess, turning her head so as to meet the glance of her friend. "Because," continued she, without waiting for a reply, "I should be sorry—nay, nothing should induce me—to state in plain terms my impression relative to that event. I may, however, allude to a few material points. Sir Everard Home, the medical attendant of the Duke of Cumberland, frequently observed, 'that too much pains were taken to involve that affair in mystery;' and another eminent physician, since dead, declared that 'the head of Sellis was nearly severed from his body, and that no man could inflict upon himself a wound of such a depth.' The Duke of Cumberland stated that his valet, Sellis, entered his bed-chamber and attacked him with a sword; and that having failed in his murderous purposes, he retired to his own room and committed suicide. Sir Everard Home distinctly proved, on the inquest, that the corpse was found lying on its side on the bed; and yet 'he had cut his own throat so effectually that he could not have changed his position after inflicting the wound.' I will not, however, make any observations upon that fact and this statement which seem so conflicting: the subject is almost too awful to deal with. There is still one remarkable point to which the attention of those who discuss the dark affair should be directed:—the hand-basin in Sellis's room was half full of blood-stained water, and it is very clear that the miserable wretch himself could not have risen to wash his hands after the wound was inflicted in his throat. But let us not dwell on this horrible event: the mere mention of it makes me shudder."

"The King of Hanover has been, at least, unfortunate in many circumstances of his life, if not guilty," observed the duchess; "because his enemies have insisted strongly upon the suspicious nature of the incident of which we have been speaking."

"The more so, because it was known that the Duke of Cumberland had intrigued with the wife of Sellis," returned the countess. "As your grace declares, that exalted personage has been indeed unfortunate—if nothing more. In 1830 Lord Graves committed suicide; and the improper connexion existing between the Duke of Cumberland and Lady Graves was notorious."

"I well remember," said the duchess, "that the conduct of the Duke and Lady Graves was far from prudent, to say the least of it, after that melancholy event. Scarcely were the remains of the self-slain nobleman cold in the tomb, ere his widow and her illustrious lover were seen driving about together in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court, where Lady Graves had apartments."

"True," exclaimed the duchess. "But we have travelled a long way from our first topic—the Royal Marriage Act. We were speaking of its pernicious effects in respect to the family of George the Third. And that was a fine family, too! My deceased mother often expatiated—and her secret papers dwell at length—upon the charms of the princesses. Alas! how sorrowfully were they situated! In the bloom of youth—in the glow of health—with warm temperaments and ardent imaginations, which received encouragement from the voluptuous indolence of their lives—they were denied the privileges of the meanest peasant girl in the realm:—they were unable to form matrimonial connexions where their inclinations prompted them. The consequences were those which might have been anticipated: the honour of the princesses became sacrificed to illicit passion—passion which was still natural, although illicit! Those amours were productive of issue; but the offspring of none has created any sensation in the world, save in the instance of Captain Garth, the son of the Princess Sophia. Relative to the mysterious birth of that individual, the secret papers left by my mother—and the existence of which is even unknown to my husband—contain some strange, some startling facts. Conceive the embarrassment—the perilous nature of the situation in which the princess was suddenly involved—when, during a journey from London to some fashionable watering-place, she found herself overtaken with the pangs of premature maternity—she, who up to that moment had managed to conceal her condition even from the attendants upon her person! Then imagine this princess—a daughter of the sovereign of the realm—compelled to put up at a miserable road-side inn—forced to make a confidant of her lady in attendance, and obliged also to entrust her secret to the surgeon of the village where her child was born! But you shall read the narrative, with all its details, in my private papers."

"What opinion has your ladyship formed relative to the circumstances which led to the Bill of Pains and Penalties instituted against Queen Caroline, the spouse of George the Fourth?" inquired the duchess.

"I firmly believe that most unfortunate and most persecuted princess to have been completely innocent," answered the countess, with solemn emphasis. "From the first she was hateful to her husband. When the Earl of Malmsbury, who was sent to Germany to escort the Princess to England, arrived with her in London, the Prince of Wales repaired instantly to pay his respects to his intended bride. But scarcely had he set eyes on her when he conceived a feeling of ineffable dislike; and, turning towards the Earl, he said, 'Harris,[27] a glass of brandy—I am ill!' Your grace has heard of love at first sight: here was hatred at first sight. Every thing attending that marriage was inauspicious: for if the Princess had the misfortune to make an unfavourable impression on the Prince, his Royal Highness wantonly wounded her feelings by grossly manifesting his dislike towards her on all occasions. On the bridal night he drank so deeply that he fell on a sofa in the nuptial chamber, and there slept with his clothes on. But to pass over many years, let us come to the circumstances which led to the memorable trial of Queen Caroline. During her continental travels, Baron Bergami was presented to her. He was a man of honourable character, good family, but ruined fortunes. His condition excited the compassion of the generous-hearted Caroline; and she gave him a situation in her household. His conversation was fascinating; and he was frequently her companion inside the travelling chariot. Perhaps an English lady would have acted with more prudence; but your grace will remember that there is a wide distinction between our manners and customs and those of the Continent. We see improprieties in actions which foreigners view as harmless courtesies or innocent proofs of friendly interest. We also seem ready to meet suspicions of evil half-way: foreigners, with more generous frankness and candour, say, 'Evil be to him who evil thinks.' But the marriage was hateful to King George the Fourth; and he was determined to dissolve it. He was resolved to sacrifice his wife to his aversions. She was to be made a victim. Then commenced that atrocious subornation of perjured witnesses which gave a colour to the proceedings against the unfortunate Queen. Her slightest levities were tortured into proofs of guilt: her generosity towards Bergami was branded as an illicit passion. The witnesses made statements which proved how well they had been tutored: they over-acted their parts; and, in their zeal to serve a master who paid them for their perjury, they deposed to more than they could possibly have known, even if the main accusation had been true. The nation was indignant—for the people, your grace, are possessed of much chivalry and noble generosity of character. Then, too, rose the portentous voices of Denman and Brougham, calling upon the hidden accuser to come forth and confront his victim. Oh! it was a vile proceeding; and I, as a woman—as a wife, feel my blood boiling in my veins when I think of all the foul wrongs which were heaped upon the most injured of my sex!"

"That trial," said the duchess, who was naturally of a more cautious disposition than her companion,—"that trial was certainly a dark blot on the page which records the annals of George the Fourth's reign."

"Say rather, your grace," exclaimed the countess, "the blackest of the innumerable black deeds which characterised his existence. Before the accusation in respect to Bergami was ever thought of, a charge was concocted against that injured lady, and commissioners were appointed to investigate it. Thus, your grace perceives, her bad husband was determined to ruin her. That charge accused her of having been delivered of a male child at her abode at Blackheath; and the affair certainly appeared suspicious at first. But how triumphantly was it met? how readily was it refuted? how easily was it explained! The injured lady had taken a fancy to the infant of poor but respectable people named Archer, living in that neighbourhood; and she had undertaken to adopt and provide for the boy. The unfortunate Princess felt the necessity of loving something—since her own child was taken from her. Thus was her goodness towards William Archer converted into a weapon wherewithal to assail her in the most tender point. Her husband's agents circulated the most odious calumnies concerning her, and even improperly coupled her name with that of Sir Sydney Smith, the hero of Acre. But the Archer story fell to the ground; and the Bergami scandal was subsequently propagated with a zeal which evinced the determination of George the Fourth to ruin Caroline of Brunswick."[28]

There was a pause in the conversation.

The duchess, who was possessed of a strong inclination for the mysterious or scandalous narratives connected with the family of George the Third, was so impressed by the vehemence and confident emphasis with which her companion had denounced the profligacy of George the Fourth, that a species of awe—an undefined alarm came over her:—it suddenly appeared as if it were a sacrilege thus to canvass the character of that deceased monarch within the very palace where he himself had dwelt;—and she hesitated to make any remark or ask any question that might lead to a continuation of the same topic.

On her side, the countess—who was much older than the duchess, and more deeply initiated in the mysteries of Courts—had become plunged into a deep reverie; for she possessed a generous mind, and never could ponder upon the wrongs of the murdered Queen Caroline without experiencing the most profound indignation and sorrow.[29]

The reader may probably deem it somewhat extraordinary that ladies attached to the Court should thus freely discuss the most private affairs, and canvass the characters of deceased members of the Royal Family. But we can positively assert that nowhere are scandal and tittle-tattle more extensively indulged in, than amongst the members of that circle of courtiers and female sycophants who crowd about the sovereign.[30]

The conversation of the duchess and countess was not renewed on the present occasion; for while they were yet plunged each in the depths of her own particular meditations, the regal train entered the Ball Room.

And all this while Henry Holford remained concealed beneath the sofa!

Victoria leant upon the arm of her consort; and the illustrious party was preceded by the Lord Chamberlain and the Lord Steward. The Queen and the Prince proceeded to the reserved seats which were slightly elevated in a recess, and were covered with white satin embroidered in silver.

Then the magnificent Ball-Room presented a truly fairy spectacle. Plumes were waving, diamonds were sparkling, bright eyes were glancing, and music floated on the air. The spacious apartment was crowded with nobles and gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms or court-dresses; and with ladies in the most elegant attire that French fashions could suggest or French milliners achieve. All those striking or attractive figures, and all the splendours of their appearance, were multiplied by the brilliant mirrors to an illimitable extent.

The orchestra extended across one end of the Ball-Room; and the musicians had entered by a side-door almost at the same moment that the royal procession made its appearance.

In the rooms adjoining, the Corps of Gentlemen-at-arms and the Yeomen of the Guard were on duty; and in the hall the band of the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards was in attendance.

The Queen and the Prince danced in the first quadrille; and afterwards they indulged in their favourite waltz—the Frohsinn mein Ziel. At the termination of each dance the royal party passed into the Picture Gallery, where they promenaded amidst a wilderness of flowers and aromatic shrubs. Then indeed the odour-breathing exotics—the whispering leaves—the light of the pendent lamps, mellowed so as to give full effect to the portraits of those who were once famous or once beautiful—the ribboned or gartered nobles—the blaze of female loveliness—the streams of melody—the presence of all possible elements of splendour, harmony, and pleasure, combined to render the whole scene one of enchantment, and seemed to realize the most glowing and brilliant visions which oriental writers ever shadowed forth!

The dancing was renewed in the Ball-Room: and as the beauteous ladies of the court swam and turned in graceful mazes, it appeared as if the art had become elevated into the harmony of motion. Dancing there was something more than mechanical: it was a true, a worthy, and a legitimate sister of poetry and music.

At twelve o'clock the doors of the supper-room were thrown open; and in that gorgeous banqueting-hall the crimson draperies, the service of gold, and the massive table ornaments were lighted up by Chinese lanterns and silver candelabra of exquisite workmanship. A splendid row of gold cups was laid on each side of the table. On the right of each plate stood a decanter of water, a finger-glass half filled with tepid water, a champagne glass, a tumbler, and three wine-glasses. Numerous servants in magnificent liveries were in attendance. No one asked for any thing: the servants offered the various dishes, of which the guests partook or which they rejected according to their taste. No healths were drunk during the Queen's presence; nor was the ceremony of taking wine with each other observed—not even on the part of the gentleman with the lady whom he had handed into the room. The domestics whose especial duty it was to serve the wine, never filled a glass until it was quite empty; nor did any guest ask for wine, but, when the servant approached him, merely stated the kind of wine he chose.

After sitting for about an hour, the Queen rose, and was conducted to the Yellow Drawing-Room by Prince Albert, the guests all rising as the royal couple retired.

Then the servants filled the glasses, and the Lord Steward said, "The Queen!" The health was drunk standing, in silence, and with a gentle inclination of the head. In a few minutes afterwards the gentlemen conducted the ladies into the Yellow Drawing-Room, where coffee and liqueurs were served.

The harp, piano, and songs by some of the ladies, occupied another hour; at the expiration of which the guests took their departure.

Holford had now been concealed nearly five hours beneath the sofa in the ball-room; and he was cramped, stiff, and wearied. During that interval he had experienced a variety of emotions:—wonder at the strange revelations which he had heard from the lips of the countess,—ineffable delight in contemplating the person of his sovereign,—envy at the exalted prosperity of Prince Albert,—thrilling excitement at the fairy-like aspect of the enchanting dance,—sensations of unknown rapture occasioned by the soft strains of the music,—and boundless disgust for his own humble, obscure, and almost serf-like condition.

During those intervals when the royal party and the guests were promenading in the Picture-Gallery or were engaged in the supper-apartment and the drawing-room, Holford longed to escape from his hiding-place and retreat to the lumber-closet where he was in the habit of concealing himself on the occasion of his visits to the palace; but there were too many persons about to render such a step safe.

It was not, therefore, until a very late hour,—or rather an early one in the morning,—that he was able to enter the supper-room and help himself to some of the dainties left upon the board; having done which, he retreated to his nook in the most retired part of the palace.

-----

Footnote 25:

This Act was denounced at the time as "one calculated only to encourage fornication and adultery in the descendants of George the Second."

Footnote 26:

Now Duchess of Inverness.

Footnote 27:

The family name of the Earl of Malmsbury.

Footnote 28:

We had the honour of enjoying the friendship of Sir Sydney Smith in Paris during the years 1834-7; and the misfortunes of Queen Caroline frequently became the topic of discourse between us. Sir Sydney Smith assured us on several occasions and in the most solemn manner, that the reports which had been circulated relative to himself and that injured lady, during her residence at Blackheath, were vile calumnies. "Queen Caroline had certainly much levity of manner, and was very thoughtless and inexperienced," he would observe; "but her virtue was never for a moment suspected by me." The following passage occurs in a letter which Queen Caroline wrote to the Countess de C——, shortly before the commencement of the Trial, and which autograph letter (together with numerous important papers concerning George the Third and his family) is in our possession:—"This letter will be delivered to you by an individual who is persecuted because he has served me faithfully. I recommend him to your kindness. The Baron Bergami is of high birth. He has been unfortunate: I perceived the excellence of the qualities he possesses—I have ameliorated his condition in a pecuniary point of view—and thus have I secured him as my friend. The fury of my adversaries pursues him—I tremble for his very existence—my royal husband is capable of any crime to ensure the gratification of his revenge. I therefore crave your protection for Bergami, and hope that by your influence you will so arrange matters that he shall not be molested in Paris. I do not ask you to admit him into your society, unless agreeable to yourself; at the same time, my dear Countess, you must be aware that pride is folly. We must judge mankind by the scale of merit, and not by the grandeur of titles. This is the course I have adopted through life, and am well pleased with my line of conduct. Recollect this precept: you will perceive its wisdom when you grow old."

Footnote 29:

The last and fatal illness of Queen Caroline was caused by a stoppage in the bowels. Doctors Maton and Warren (the king's physicians) attended upon the illustrious lady; and various remedies were prescribed by them—but in vain. One morning, a bottle of croton oil was sent to an individual of Her Majesty's household, accompanied by the following letter:—

"SIR,—I am aware that nothing but the great—the very great—danger Her Majesty is in, would excuse this unauthorised intrusion. Having, however, learnt from the papers the nature of Her Majesty's complaint, I have taken the liberty to forward to you, with a view of having it handed to Dr. Maton or Dr. Warren, a medicine of strong aperient properties, called croton oil—one drop of which is a dose. It is most probably known to some of Her Majesty's advisers; but it has only been recently brought into this country. It may be proper to observe that Doctor Pemberton has himself taken it; and I have administered it to more than one person. Its operation is quick and certain. Two drops, when made into pills with bread, usually produce saving effects in half or three quarters of an hour. It has struck me that this medicine might be successfully administered to Her Majesty. At all events I can have done no harm in taking the liberty to suggest it; but, unwilling to appear anxious to make myself obtrusive, or to seem influenced by any other than the most disinterested motives, I have declined giving my name.

"Yours respectfully, A CHEMIST."

This letter, and the medicine, were forwarded to Dr. Pemberton, of Great George Street, Hanover Square, who had at one time been Her Majesty's principal medical attendant. Dr. Pemberton's answer was this:—"I have myself taken two drops of the croton oil, on several occasions; and the Queen may safely take one." The royal physicians obtained an interview with George the Fourth, and the result was a declaration on their part, "that they did not consider themselves justified in administering the medicine to Her Majesty." Comment is unnecessary.

Footnote 30:

But, ah! while of Victoria's court I'm singing, What solemn music echoes from the lyre! And wherefore does a passing bell seem ringing, And melancholy thoughts my soul inspire? See where the raven now his flight is winging— Hark to the anthem of the funeral choir— List to the curfew's note of death-like gloom— And drop a tear o'er Flora Hastings' tomb!

—Sequel to Don Juan.

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CXCIV. THE ROYAL BREAKFAST

Holford did not immediately close his eyes in slumber.

Although his education had been miserably neglected, he possessed good natural abilities; and his reflections at times were of a far more philosophical nature than could have been anticipated.

The gorgeous scenes which he had just witnessed now led him to meditate upon the horrible contrasts which existed elsewhere, not only in the great metropolis, but throughout the United Kingdom,—and many, very many of which he himself had seen with his own eyes, and felt with his own experience.

At that moment when festivity was highest, and pleasure was most exciting in the regal halls, there were mothers in naked attics, dark cellars, or even houseless in the open streets,—mothers who pressed their famished little ones to their bosoms, and wondered whether a mouthful of food would ever pass their lips again.

While the royal table groaned beneath the weight of golden vessels and the choicest luxuries which earth's fruitfulness, heaven's bounty, or man's ingenuity could supply,—while the raciest produce of fertile vineyards sparkled in the crystal cups,—at that same period, how many thousands of that exalted lady's subjects moistened their sorry crust with tears wrung from them by the consciousness of ill-requited toil and the pinching gripe of bitter poverty!

Delicious music here, and the cries of starving children there;—silver candelabra pouring forth a flood of lustre in a gorgeous saloon, and a flickering rushlight making visible the naked and damp-stained walls of a wretched garret;—silks and satins, rags and nudity;—luxurious and pampered indolence; crushing and ill-paid labour;—homage and reverence, ill-treatment and oppression;—the gratification of every whim, the absence of every necessary;—not a care for to-morrow here, not a hope for to-morrow there;—a certainty of a renewal of this day's plenty, a total ignorance whence the next day's bread can come;—mirth and laughter, moans and sorrowing;—a palace for life on one hand, and an anxiety lest even the wretched hovel may not be changed for a workhouse to-morrow;—these are the appalling contrasts which our social sphere presents to view!

Of all this Holford thought as he lay concealed in the lumber-room of the royal dwelling.

But at length sleep overtook him.

It was still dark when he awoke. At first he thought that he must have slumbered for many hours—that a day had passed, and that another night had come;—but he felt too little refreshed to remain many instants in that opinion. Moreover, as he watched the window, he observed a faint, faint gleam of light—or rather a mitigation of the intenseness of the gloom without—slowly appearing; and he knew that the dawn was at hand.

He was nearly frozen in that cheerless room where he had slept: his teeth chattered—his limbs were benumbed. He longed for some new excitement to elevate his drooping spirits, and thus impart physical warmth to his frame.

Suddenly a thought struck him: he would penetrate into the royal breakfast-room! He knew that the Queen and Prince Albert frequently partook of the morning meal together; and he longed to listen to their conversation when thus tête-a-tête.

Scarcely had he conceived this project when he resolved to execute it. The interior of the palace—even to its most private apartments and chambers—was as we have before stated, perfectly familiar to him. Stealing from the place where he had slept, he proceeded with marvellous caution to the point of his present destination; and in about ten minutes he reached the breakfast-room in safety.

The twilight of morning had now penetrated through the windows of this apartment; for the heavy curtains were drawn aside, a cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and the table was already spread.

A friendly sofa became Holford's hiding-place.

Shortly after eight o'clock a domestic entered with the morning Ministerial paper, which he laid upon the table, and then withdrew.

Five minutes elapsed, when the door was thrown open, and the Queen entered, attended by two ladies. These were almost immediately dismissed; and Victoria seated herself near the fire, to read the journal. But scarcely had she opened it, ere Prince Albert made his appearance, followed by a gentleman in waiting, who humbly saluted her Majesty and retired.

Servants immediately afterwards entered, and placed upon the table the materials for a sumptuous breakfast, having performed which duty they immediately left the room.

The Queen and her consort were now alone—or at least, supposed themselves to be so; and their conversation soon flowed without restraint.

But such an empire—such a despotism does the habitual etiquette of Courts establish over the natural freedom of the human mind, that even the best and most tender feelings of the heart are to a certain extent subdued and oppressed by that chilling influence. The royal pair were affectionate to each other: still their tenderness was not of that lively, unembarrassed, free, and cordial nature which subsists at the domestic hearth elsewhere. There seemed to be a barrier between the frank and open interchange of their thoughts; and even though that barrier were no thicker than gauze, still it existed. Their words were to some degree measured—scarcely perceptibly so, it is true—nevertheless, the fact was apparent in the least, least degree; and the effect was also in the least, least degree unpleasant.

The Queen was authoritative in the enunciation of her opinion upon any subject; and if the Prince differed from her, he expressed himself with restraint. In fact, he did not feel himself his wife's equal. Could a listener, who did not see them as they spoke, have deadened his ear to those intonations of their voices which marked their respective sex, and have judged only by their words, he would have thought that the Queen was the husband, and the Prince the wife.

The Prince appeared to be very amiable, very intelligent; but totally inexperienced in the ways of the world. The Queen exhibited much natural ability and an elegant taste: nevertheless, she also seemed lamentably ignorant of the every-day incidents of life. We mean that the royal pair manifested a reluctance to believe in those melancholy occurrences which characterize the condition of the industrious millions. This was not the result of indifference, but of sheer ignorance. Indeed, it would necessarily seem difficult for those who were so surrounded by every luxury, to conceive that such a fearful contrast as literal starvation could possibly exist.

But let us hear that illustrious pair converse: their language will to some extent serve as an index to their minds.

"Melbourne informed me last evening," said the Queen, "that he trembles for the safety of his Cabinet during the approaching session. The Carlton Club is particularly active; and the Conservative party has acquired great strength during the recess."

"What would be the consequence of a Ministerial defeat?" inquired Prince Albert.

"A dissolution, of course," answered the Queen. "I must candidly confess that I should regret to see the Conservative party succeed to power. All the principal lords and ladies of our household would be immediately changed. The Whigs, however, have certainly grown unpopular; and there appears to be some distress in the country. The very first article on which my eyes rested when I took up this newspaper ere now, is headed 'Dreadful Suicide through Extreme Destitution.' Beneath, in the same column, is an article entitled 'Infanticide, and Suicide of the Murderess, through Literal Starvation.' The next column contains a long narrative which I have not had time to read, but which is headed 'Suicide through Dread of the Workhouse.' On this page," continued the Queen, turning the paper upon the table, "there is an article entitled 'Death from Starvation;' another headed 'Dreadful Condition of the Spitalfields' Weavers;' a third called 'Starving State of the Paisley Mechanics;' a fourth entitled 'Awful Distress in the Manufacturing Districts;' and I perceive numerous short paragraphs all announcing similar calamities."

"The English papers are always full of such accounts," observed the Prince.

"And yet I would have you know that England is the richest, most prosperous, and happiest country on the face of the earth," returned the Queen, somewhat impatiently. "You must not take these accounts literally as you read them. My Ministers assure me that they are greatly exaggerated. It appears—as the matter has been explained to me—that the persons who furnish these narratives are remunerated according to quantity; and they therefore amplify the details as much as possible."

"Still those accounts must be, to a certain extent, based on truth?" said Prince Albert, half inquiringly.

"Not nearly so much as you imagine. My Ministers have satisfied me on that head; and they must know better than you. Take, for instance, the article headed 'Dreadful Condition of the Spitalfields' Weavers.' You may there read that the weavers are in an actual state of starvation. This is only newspaper metaphor: the writer means his readers to understand that the weavers are not so well off as they would wish to be. Perhaps they have not meat every day—perhaps only three or four times a week: but they assuredly have plenty of bread and potatoes—because bread and potatoes are so cheap!"

"I thought that you intended to discountenance the importation of foreign silks, by ordering all the ladies of the Court to wear dresses of English material?" observed Prince Albert, after a pause.

"Such was my intention," answered the Queen; "but the ladies about me dropped so many hints on the subject, that I was compelled to rescind the command. I must confess that I was not sorry to find an excuse for so doing; for I greatly prefer French silks and French dressmakers. But let me make an observation upon this article which is headed 'Suicide through Dread of the Workhouse.' I spoke to the Secretary of State a few days ago upon the subject of workhouses; and he assured me that they are very comfortable places. He declared that the people do not know when they are well off, and that they require to be managed like refractory children. He quite convinced me that all he said was perfectly correct; and I really begin to think that the people are very obstinate, dissatisfied, and insolent."

"They are most enthusiastic in their demonstrations towards their sovereign," remarked the Prince.

"And naturally so," exclaimed Victoria. "Am I not their Queen? are they not my subjects? do I not rule over them? All the happiness, prosperity, and enjoyments which they possess emanate from the throne. They would be very ungrateful if they did not reverence—nay, adore their sovereign."

"Oh, of course!" said Prince Albert. "In Germany, any individual who exhibits the least coldness towards his sovereign is immediately marked as a traitor."

"And in this country the Home Secretary keeps a list of disaffected persons," observed the Queen; "but, thank God! their number is very limited—at least, so I am assured. My Ministers are constantly informing me of the proofs of loyalty and devotion which the people manifest towards me. If this were a Roman Catholic nation, they would no doubt place my image next to the Virgin in their chapels; and if it were an idolatrous country, my effigy would assuredly stand amongst the gods and goddesses. It is very pleasant, Albert, to be so much loved by my subjects—to be positively worshipped by them."

The Prince replied with a compliment which it is not worth while to record.

The Queen smiled, and continued:—

"You remember the paragraph which the Secretary of State pointed out a few days ago: it was in the Morning Post, if you recollect. That journal—which, by the bye, circulates entirely amongst the upper servants of the aristocracy, and nowhere else—declared 'that so great is the devotion of my loyal, subjects that, were such a sacrifice necessary, they would joyfully throw themselves beneath the wheels of my state-carriage, even as the Indians cast themselves under the car of Juggernaut.'[31] I never in my life saw but that one number of the Post: its circulation, I am told, is confined entirely to the servants of the aristocracy; still it seems in that instance to express the sentiments of the entire nation. You smile, Albert?"

"I was only thinking whether the paragraph to which you have alluded, was another specimen of newspaper metaphor," answered the Prince, with some degree of hesitation.

"Not at all," returned the Queen, quickly; "the Editor wrote precisely as he thought. He must know the real sentiments of the people, since he is a man of the people himself. I have been assured that he was once the head-butler in a nobleman's family: hence his success in conducting a daily newspaper exclusively devoted to the interests and capacities of upper-servants."

"I thought that English Editors were generally a better class of men?" observed the Prince.

"So they are for the most part," replied the Queen: "graduates at the Universities—barristers—and highly accomplished gentlemen. But in the case of the Morning Post there seems to be an exception. We were, however, conversing upon the distress in the country—for there certainly is some little distress here and there; although the idea of people actually dying of starvation in a Christian land is of course absurd. I am really bewildered, at times, with the reasons of, and the remedies proposed for, that distress. If I ask the Home Secretary, he declares that the people are too obstinate to understand what comfortable places the workhouses are;—if I ask the Colonial Secretary, he assures me that the people are most wilfully blind to the blessings of emigration: if I ask the Foreign Secretary, he labours to convince me that the distracted state of the East reacts upon this country; and if I ask the Bishop of London he expresses his conviction that the people require more churches."

"For my part, I do not like to interfere in these matters," said the Prince; "and therefore I never ask any questions concerning them."

"And you act rightly, Albert, for you certainly know nothing of English politics. I observe by the newspapers that the country praises your forbearance in this respect. You are a Field-Marshal, and Chief Judge of the Stannaries Court—and——"

"And a Knight of the Garter," added the Prince.

"Yes—and a Learned Doctor of Laws," continued the Queen: "any thing else?"

"Several things—but I really forget them all now," returned the Prince.

"Never mind," exclaimed the Queen. "I intend to obtain for you higher distinctions yet. I do not like the mere title of Prince, and the style of Royal Highness: you shall be King-Consort and Your Majesty. Then, when a vacancy occurs, you must be appointed Commander-in-Chief."

"I feel deeply grateful for your kind intentions," returned the Prince, with a smile; "but you are well aware that I am totally ignorant of every thing connected with the army."

"That is of no consequence in England," replied the Queen. "You will have subordinates to do your duty. I must speak to Melbourne about all this. And now, as I intend to take these steps in your behalf, pray be a little more cautious relative to your private amusements; and let me hear of no more burying of dogs with funeral honours. That little affair of the interment of Eos at Windsor has attracted the notice of the press, I understand. It was indiscreet."

"If I adapt my conduct entirely according to the English notions," returned the Prince, "I should be compelled to give up those battues to which I am so devotedly attached."

"We must consult Melbourne on that head," observed the Queen.

The royal pair then conversed upon a variety of topics which would afford little interest to the reader; and shortly after nine her Majesty withdrew.

Prince Albert remained in the room to read the newspaper.

Henry Holford had listened with almost breathless attention to the conversation which we have recorded.

The Prince had drawn his chair more closely to the fire, after the Queen left the room; and he was now sitting within a couple of yards of the sofa beneath which Holford lay concealed.

The pot-boy gently drew aside the drapery which hung from the framework of the sofa to the floor, and gazed long and intently on the Prince. His look was one in which envy, animosity, and admiration were strangely blended. He thought within himself, "Why are you so exalted, and I so abased? And yet your graceful person—your intelligent countenance—your handsome features, seem to fit you for such an elevated position. Nevertheless, if I had had your advantages of education——"

The meditations of the presumptuous youth were suddenly and most disagreeably checked:—the Prince abruptly threw aside the paper, and his eyes fell on the human countenance that was gazing up at him from beneath the sofa.

His Royal Highness uttered an exclamation of surprise—not altogether unmingled with alarm; and his first impulse was to stretch out his hand towards the bell-rope. But, yielding to a second thought, he advanced to the sofa, exclaiming, "Come forth—whoever you may be."

Then the miserable pot-boy dragged himself from his hiding-place, and in another moment stood, pale and trembling, in the presence of the Prince.

"Who are you?" demanded his Royal Highness in a stern tone: "what means this intrusion? how came you hither?"

Henry Holford fell at the feet of the Prince, and confessed that, urged by an invincible curiosity, he had entered the palace on the preceding evening; but he said nothing of his previous visits.

For a few moments Prince Albert seemed uncertain how to act: he was doubtless hesitating between the alternatives of handing the intruder over to the officers of justice, or of allowing him to depart unmolested.

After a pause, he questioned Holford more closely, and seemed satisfied by the youth's assurance that he had really entered the palace through motives of curiosity, and not for any dishonest purpose.

The Prince accordingly determined to be merciful.

"I am willing," he said, "to forgive the present offence; you shall be suffered to depart. But I warn you that a repetition of the act will lead to a severe punishment. Follow me."

The Prince led the way to an ante-room where a domestic was in waiting.

"Conduct this lad as privately as you can from the palace," said his Royal Highness. "Ask him no questions—and mention not the incident elsewhere."

The Prince withdrew; and the lacquey led Henry Holford through various turnings in the palace to the servants' door opening into Pimlico.

Thus was the pot-boy ignominiously expelled from the palace; and never—never in his life had he felt more thoroughly degraded—more profoundly abased—more contemptible in his own eyes, than on the present occasion!

-----

Footnote 31:

Such a disgustingly fulsome, and really atrocious paragraph did actually appear in the Morning Post three or four years ago.

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Chapter CXCV

THE ARISTOCRATIC VILLAIN AND THE LOW MISCREANT.

On the northern side of the Thames there is no continuously direct way along the bank for any great distance: to walk, for instance, from London Bridge to Vauxhall Bridge, one would be compelled to take many turnings, and deviate materially from the course shaped by the sinuosity of the stream. But on the southern side of the Thames, one may walk from the foot of London Bridge to that of Vauxhall, without scarcely losing sight of the river.

In this latter instance, the way would lie along Clink Street, Bankside, and Holland Street, to reach Blackfriars Bridge; the Commercial Road to Waterloo Bridge; the Belvidere Road, and Pedlar's Acre, to Westminster Bridge; and Stangate, the Bishop's Walk, and Fore Street, to reach Vauxhall Bridge.

This journey would not occupy nearly so much time as might be supposed ere a second thought was devoted to the subject; and yet how large a section of the diameter of London would have been traversed!

A portion of the path just detailed is denominated Pedlar's Acre; and it lies between Westminster and Hungerford Bridges. Adjoining the thoroughfare itself is an acre of ground, which is the property of the parish, and is let as a timber-yard. Tradition declares that it was given by a pedlar to the parish, on condition that the picture of himself and his dog be preserved, in stained glass, in one of the windows of Lambeth church; and in support of this legend, such a representation may indeed be seen in the south-east window of the middle aisle of the church just mentioned. Nevertheless, one of those antiquaries whose sesquipedalian researches are undertaken with a view to elucidate matters of this kind,—a valueless labour,—has declared that the land was bequeathed to the parish, in the year 1504, by some person totally unknown. Be the origin of the grant and the name of the donor as they may, there is such a place as Pedlar's Acre; and it is to a public-house in this thoroughfare that we must now request our readers to accompany us.

Seated in a private room on the first floor was a gentlemanly-looking man, of about six-and-thirty years of age. His face was decidedly handsome; but it had a downcast and sinister expression little calculated to prepossess a stranger in this person's favour. There was also a peculiar curl—more wicked than haughty—about his lip, that seemed to speak of strongly concentrated passions: the deep tones of his voice, the peculiar glance of his large grey eyes, and the occasional contraction of his brow denoted a mind resolute in carrying out any purpose it might have formed.

He was dressed with some degree of slovenliness; as if he had not leisure to waste upon the frivolity of self-adornment, or as if his means were not sufficient to permit that elegance of wardrobe which could alone stimulate his pride in the embellishment of his person.

A glass of steaming punch stood untouched near him.

It was six o'clock in the evening; and he was evidently waiting for some one.

His patience was not, however, put to a very severe test; for scarcely had five minutes elapsed after his arrival, when the door opened, and the Resurrection Man entered the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Vernon," he said, as he carefully closed the door behind him: then, taking a seat, he observed, "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

"Oh! never mind that," exclaimed Vernon, impatiently. "Have you any good news to communicate?"

"I am sorry to say that I have not. I called this morning upon the clerk of the parish church where your brother was married, and tried him in all ways."

"And he refused?" said Vernon, with an angry tone.

"He refused," answered Tidkins. "He is timid and old; and, after having first entertained the subject, at length backed out of it altogether."

"Because you did not offer him enough," cried Vernon, savagely: "because you did not show him gold! You are only lukewarm in this affair: you are afraid to risk a few miserable pounds in the business. This is not the way to conduct a grand project of such a nature. It is true that I am fearfully embarrassed for funds at this moment; but if you had acted with liberality—if we eventually succeeded—you must be well aware that my generosity would know no bounds."

"Mr. Vernon," said the Resurrection Man, coolly, "if you have nothing better than reproaches to offer as the reward of my exertions in your behalf, we should do well to separate at once. I was not niggard in my offers to the clerk: I spread fifty golden sovereigns before him—told him to take them, and promised as much more when he had done the job. But he hesitated—reflected—and at length positively refused altogether."

"And you really believe there is no hope in that quarter?" said Vernon, anxiously.

"None. If the old clerk would ever agree to serve us, he would have consented this morning. I know the man now: he is too timid to suit our purposes. But let us look calmly at the whole business, and devise another mode of proceeding," added the Resurrection Man. "You are still determined, by some means or other, to get possession of the estates of your elder brother?"

"My resolution is even increased by every fresh obstacle," replied Vernon. "I have two powerful objects to accomplish—revenge and ambition. Lord Ravensworth has treated me with a cruelty and a contempt that would goad the most meek and patient to study the means of vengeance. Our late father always intended the ready money, of which he could dispose, to come to me, because the estates were entailed upon my brother. But my father died suddenly, and intestate; and my brother, although he well knew our parent's intentions, grasped all—gave me nothing! No—I am wrong," added Vernon, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner; "he agreed to allow me five hundred pounds a-year, as a recompense for the loss of as many thousands!"

"And you accepted the offer?" said the Resurrection Man.

"I accepted it as a beggar receives alms sooner than starve," continued Vernon: "I accepted it because I had nothing: I had not the means of existence. But I accepted it also as an instalment of my just due—and not as a concession on the part of his bounty. My habits are naturally extravagant: my expenses are great—I cannot check myself in that respect. Thus am I perpetually obtaining advances from my brother's agent; and now I have not another shilling to receive until next January."

"Nearly a year!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "But if you was to call on the agent——"

"Absurd!" ejaculated Vernon. "Have I not told you that my brother believes me still to be in the East—still travelling in Turkey? So long as he supposes me far away, I can carry on my projects in London with far greater security. In a word, it is much safer that my presence in this country should remain a profound secret. He will die shortly—he must die—he is daily, steadily parting with vitality. He is passing out of existence by a sure, a speedy, and yet an inexplicable progression of decay. Of his death, then, I am sure; and when it shall occur, how can suspicion attach itself to me—since I am supposed to be abroad—far away?"

"You are certain that your brother is hastening towards the grave?" said the Resurrection Man. "The great obstacle—the greatest, I mean—will be thereby removed. Suppose that Lady Ravensworth should be delivered of a boy, would it not be equally easy——"

"Yes—it would be easy to put it out of the way by violence," was the rapid reply; "but, then, I should risk my neck at the same time that I gained a fortune. No—that will not do! I could not incur a danger of so awful a nature. The infant heir to vast estates would be jealously protected—attentively watched—surrounded by all wise precautions:—no—it were madness to think of practising aught against its life."

"Could not the same means by which—even though at a distance—you are undermining the life of your brother——"

"No—no," replied Vernon, impatiently. "It is not necessary that I should explain to you the precise nature of the means by which I succeed in effecting Lord Ravensworth's physical decay; suffice it to state that those means could not be applied to a child."

"Nevertheless," continued the Resurrection Man, "you must have an agent at Ravensworth Park; for if—as I suppose—your brother is dying by means of slow poison, there is some confidential creature of your own about his person to administer the drugs."

"I have no agent at Ravensworth;—I have no confidential creature about my brother's person;—and I have so combined my measures that Lord Ravensworth is actually committing suicide—dying by his own hand! Another time I will expound all this to you; for to you alone have I communicated my projects."

"Have you not explained yourself to Greenwood?" demanded the Resurrection Man. "I thought you told me, the last time we met, that he knew you well—and knew also that you are in England?"

"I was acquainted with him some four or five years ago, when he was not so prosperous as he is—or as he appears to be—at present," replied Vernon; "but having been abroad since that time until my return last week, I had lost sight of him—and had even forgotten him. It was not a little provoking to run against him the very first day of my arrival in London; and, though I endeavoured to avoid him, he persisted in speaking to me."

"You are not afraid that he will gossip about your presence in London?" said the Resurrection Man.

"He promised me most faithfully to keep the fact a profound secret," returned Vernon.

"And will he not advance you a small sum for your present purposes?" demanded Tidkins.

"I called on him last evening, in consequence of the suggestion contained in your note;—I requested a loan for a particular purpose;—but he refused to oblige me," added Vernon, his brow contracting. "I wish that I had not so far humbled myself by asking him."

"No matter for that," said Tidkins: "we are wandering from our subject. Here is the substance of the whole affair:—Lord Ravensworth will soon be gathered to his fathers, as they say: but in the meantime Lady Ravensworth may have a child. If it is a daughter, you are all safe; if it is a son you are all wrong. I don't know how it is—I'm not superstitious—but in these matters, where a good fellow like yourself is within reach of a fortune, and whether you are to get it or not depends on the sex of an expected infant,—in such cases, I say, the card generally does turn up wrong. Now if the child should be a boy, what will you do?"

"I cannot consent to abandon the plan of bribing the clerk to destroy the leaf in the register," answered Vernon.

"Pshaw! the project is bad—I told you so all along. See how the matter would stand," continued Tidkins:—"Lord Ravensworth dies and leaves, we will suppose, an infant heir—a son. Then you suddenly make your appearance, and demand proofs of your brother's marriage. The register is searched—a leaf is missing—it is the one which contains the record of the union celebrated between Lord Ravensworth and Miss Adeline Enfield! Would not this seem very extraordinary? would it not create suspicions that Lord Ravensworth may not have died fairly? No—your project, Mr. Vernon, will never do: It is baseless—shallow—childish. It is unworthy of you. If you persist in it, I shall wash my hands of the business:—if you will follow my advice, you shall be Lord Ravensworth before you are a year older."

Vernon could not conceal a sentiment of admiration for that man who thus dexterously reasoned on his plans, and thus boldly promised that consummation to which he so fondly aspired.

"Speak, Mr. Tidkins," he said; "we have met to consult on the necessary course to be adopted."

"Let us come, then, boldly to the point," continued the Resurrection Man, sinking his voice to a whisper: "rest patiently for the confinement of Lady Ravensworth, which, you have learnt, is expected to take place in six weeks;—if the issue is a girl, you need trouble yourself no more in the business, but calmly wait till death does its work with Lord Ravensworth."

"And if the issue be a boy?" said Vernon, gazing fixedly on his companion's countenance.

"It must be put out of the way," answered the Resurrection Man, in a low, but stern tone; "and you may trust to me that the business shall be done in such a manner as to endanger no one's neck."

"You think—you imagine that it can be done——" said Vernon, hesitatingly—but still with that kind of hesitation which is prepared to yield and to consent.

"I do not speak upon thoughts and imaginings," replied Tidkins: "I argue on conviction. Leave the whole affair to me. I have my plan already settled—and, when the time comes, we will talk more about it. For the present," continued the Resurrection Man, drawing a bill-stamp from his pocket, and handing it to his companion, "have the goodness to write the name of Ravensworth at the bottom of this blank. I shall not use it until you are really Lord Ravensworth, when the signature will be your proper one."

Vernon cast a hasty glance over the bill, and observed, "It is a five-and-twenty shilling stamp."

"Yes—to cover three thousand pounds," returned the Resurrection Man. "That will not be too much for making you a peer and a rich man. Besides, I intend to advance you a matter of fifty pounds at once, for your immediate necessities."

"And if I should happen to fail in obtaining the title and estates of Ravensworth," said Vernon, "this document would enable you to immure me in a debtor's prison."

"Ridiculous!" ejaculated Tidkins, impatiently. "In that case your name would not be Ravensworth; and it is the name of Ravensworth which I require to this bill. As for throwing your person into a prison, what good could that do me? A dead carcass is of more value than a living one," he added, in a muttering tone.

Vernon did not overhear this remark—or, if he did, he comprehended not the allusion; but he signed the bill without farther hesitation.

The Resurrection Man consigned it to his pocket-book, and then drew forth a purse filled with gold, which he handed to his companion.

Vernon received it with a stiff and haughty inclination of the head:—his necessities compelled him to accept the succour; but his naturally proud feelings made him shrink from its source.

Having so far arranged the matters which they had met to discuss, the aristocratic villain and the low miscreant separated.

Vernon returned to his lodging in Stamford Street; and the Resurrection Man proceeded into the Westminster Road, where he took a cab, saying to the driver, "Golden Lane, Saint Luke's."

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CXCVI. THE OLD HAG AND THE RESURRECTION MAN

The Old Hag, who has so frequently figured in former portions of our narrative, had latterly become more prosperous, if not more respectable, than when we first introduced her to our readers.

From having been the occupant of only one room in the house in the court leading from Golden Lane, she had become the lessee of the entire dwelling. The commencement of this success was owing to her connexion with Lady Cecilia Harborough in the intrigue of the "living statue;" and from that moment affairs seemed to have taken a new turn with her. At all events her "business" increased; and the sphere of her infamy became enlarged.

She would have taken another and better house, in some fashionable quarter, and re-commenced the avocation of a first-rate brothel-keeper—the pursuit of the middle period of her life;—but she reasoned that she was known to a select few where she was—that the obscurity of her dwelling was favourable to many of the nefarious projects in which her aid was required—and that she was too old to dream of forming a new connexion elsewhere.

It would be impossible to conceive a soul more diabolically hardened, more inveterately depraved, than that of this old hag.

In order to increase her resources, and occupy, as she said, "her leisure time," she had hired or bought some half-dozen young girls, about ten or twelve years old;—hired or bought them, whichever the reader pleases, of their parents, a "consideration" having been given for each, and the said parents comforting themselves with the idea that their children were well provided for!

These children of tender age were duly initiated by the old hag in all the arts and pursuits of prostitution. They were sent in pairs to parade Aldersgate Street, Fleet Street, and Cheapside; and their special instructions were to practise their allurements upon elderly men, whose tastes might be deemed more vitiated and eccentric than those of the younger loungers of the great thoroughfares where prostitution most thrives.

A favourite scheme of the old woman's was this:—One of her juvenile emissaries succeeded, we will suppose, in alluring to the den in Golden Lane an elderly man whose outward respectability denoted a well-filled purse, and ought to have been associated with better morals. When the wickedness was consummated, and the elderly gentleman was about to depart, the old hag would meet him and the young girl on the stairs, and, affecting to treat the latter as a stranger who had merely used her house as a common place of such resort, would seem stupefied at the idea "of so youthful a creature having been brought to her abode for such a purpose." She would then question the girl concerning her age; and the reply would be "under twelve" of course. Thus the elderly voluptuary would suddenly find himself liable to punishment for a misdemeanour, for intriguing with a girl beneath the age of twelve; and the virtuous indignation of the old hag would be vented in assertions that though she kept a house of accommodation for grown-up persons, she abhorred the encouragement of juvenile profligacy. The result would be that the hoary old sinner found himself compelled to pay a considerable sum as hush-money.

We might occupy many pages with the details of the tricks and artifices which the old hag taught these young girls. And of a surety, they were subjects sufficiently plastic to enable her to model them to all her infamous purposes. Born of parents who never took the trouble to inculcate a single moral lesson, even if they knew any, those poor creatures had actually remained ignorant of the meaning of right and wrong until they were old enough to take an interest in the events that were passing around them. Then, when they missed some lad of their acquaintance, and, on inquiry, learnt that he had been sent to prison for taking something which did not belong to him, they began to understand that it was dangerous to do such an act—but it did not strike them that it was wrong. Again, if by accident they heard that another boy whom they knew, had got a good place, was very industrious, and in a fair way to prosper, they would perceive some utility in such conduct, but would still remain unable to appreciate its rectitude.

Most of the girls whom the old hag had enlisted in her service, had been born and reared in that dirty warren which constitutes Golden Lane, Upper Whitecross Street, Playhouse Yard, Swan Street, and all their innumerable courts, alleys, and obscure nooks, swarming with a ragged and degraded population. Sometimes in their infancy they creeped out from their loathsome burrows, and even ventured into Old Street, Barbican, or Beech Street. But those excursions were not frequent. During their childhood they rolled half-naked in the gutters,—eating the turnip-parings and cabbage-stalks which were tossed out into the street with other offal,—poking about in the kennels to find lost halfpence,—or even plundering the cat's-meat-man and the tripe-shop for the means of satisfying their hunger! This mode of life was but little varied;—unless, indeed, it were by the more agreeable recreations of particular days in the year. Thus, for instance, November was welcomed as the time for making a Guy-Fawkes, and carrying it round in procession amidst the pestilential mazes of the warren; August gave them "oyster day," to be signalised by the building of shell-grottoes, which were an excuse for importuning passengers for alms; and the December season had its "boxing-day," on which occasion the poor ragged creatures would be seen thronging the doors of the oil-shops to beg for Christmas-candles!

These had been the only holidays which characterised the childhood of those unfortunate, lost, degraded girls whose lot we are describing. Sunday was not marked by cleanlier apparel, nor better food: if it were singled out at all from the other days of the week, the distinguishing sign was merely the extra drunkenness of the fathers of the families. Good Friday brought the little victims no hot-cross buns, nor Christmas Day its festivities, nor Shrove Tuesday its pancakes:—they had no knowledge of holy periods nor sacred ceremonies;—no seasonable luxury reminded them of the anniversaries of the birth, the death, or the resurrection of a Redeemer.

No—in physical privations and moral blindness had they passed their infancy:—and thus, having gone through a complete initiation into the miseries and sufferings of life, they were prepared at the age of ten to commence an apprenticeship of crime. And the old hag was an excellent mistress: were there an University devoted to graduates in Wickedness, this horrible wretch would have taken first-class Degrees in its schools.

Thus, be it understood, up to the age of ten or eleven, when those poor girls were transferred by their unfeeling parents (who were glad to get rid of them) to the care of the old woman, they had scarcely ever been out of the warren where they were born. Now a new world, as it were, dawned upon them. They laid aside their fetid rags, and put on garments which appeared queenly robes in their eyes. They were sent into streets lined with splendid shops, and beheld gay carriages and equipages of all kinds. Hitherto the principal gin-shop in their rookery had appeared the most gorgeous palace in the world in their eyes, with its revolving burners, its fine windows, and its meretriciously-dressed bar-girls:—now they could feast their gaze with the splendours of the linen-drapers' and jewellers' establishments on Ludgate Hill. Their existence seemed to be suddenly invested with charms that they had never before dreamt of; and they adored the old hag as the authoress of their good fortune. Thus she established a sovereign dominion over her poor ignorant victims through the medium of their mistaken gratitude; and when she told them to sin, they sinned—sinned, too, before they even knew the meaning of virtue!

Such was the history—not of one only—but of all the young girls whom this atrocious old hag had bought from their parents!

To many—to most of our readers, the details of this description may seem improbable,—nay, impossible.

The picture is, alas! too true.

Poor fallen children! the world scorns you—society contemns you—the unthinking blame you. But, just heaven! are ye more culpable than that community which took no precaution to prevent your degradation, and which now adopts no measures to reclaim you?

As for ourselves, we declare most solemnly that we believe no age to have been more disgraced than the present one, and no country more culpable than our own. In this age of Bibles and country of glorious civilisation,—in this epoch of missions and land of refinement,—in this period of grand political reform, and nation of ten thousand philanthropic institutions,—in the middle of the nineteenth century, and with all the advantages of profound peace,—and, what is worst of all, in that great city which vaunts itself the metropolis of the civilised world, there are thousands of young children whose neglected, hopeless, and miserable condition can only be looked upon as an apprenticeship calculated to fill our streets with prostitutes of finished depravity—to people our gaols, hulks, and penal colonies with villains familiar with every phase of crime—and to supply our scaffolds with victims for the diversion of a rude and ruthless mob!

It was nine o'clock in the evening; and the old hag was seated in the same room where we have before frequently seen her.

She was, however, surrounded by several additional comforts. She no longer burnt turf in her grate, but good Wall's End coals. She no longer placed her feet on an old mat, but on a thick carpet. She no longer bought her gin by the quartern or half pint, but by the bottle. She sweetened her tea with lump sugar, instead of moist; and in the place of a stew of tripe or cow-heel, she had a joint cooked at the bake-house, or a chicken boiled on her own fire.

Her select patrons had contributed much towards this improvement in her circumstances; but the luxuries in which she could now indulge, were provided for her by the prostitution of her young victims.

She was now dozing in her arm-chair, with her great cat upon her lap; but even in the midst of her semi-slumber, her ears were awake to the least motion of the knocker of the house-door—that sound which was the indication of business!

Thus, when, true to the time appointed in his note, the Resurrection Man arrived at the house, not many moments elapsed ere he was admitted into the hag's parlour.

"So you have discovered the address of Katherine Wilmot," said the hag. "Where does she reside?"

"No matter where," returned the Resurrection Man; "it is sufficient that I can communicate with her, or bring her up to London, when it suits me. I have come now to have a full understanding with you on the subject; and if we play our cards well, we may obtain a round sum of money from this girl—that is, supposing she is really the child of the Harriet Wilmot whom you knew."

"There can be no doubt of it—there can be no doubt of it," exclaimed the old hag, rocking herself to and fro. "She is the daughter of that Harriet Wilmot whom I knew, and whose image sometimes haunts me in my dreams."

"But what proofs have you of the fact?" demanded the Resurrection Man. "It will not suit me to take any more trouble in the matter, unless I know for certain that I am not running a wild-goose chase."

"I shall not tell you how I came to know Harriet Wilmot seventeen years ago, nor any thing more about her than I can help," said the old hag resolutely. "I was, however, well acquainted with her—I knew all about her. With her own lips she told me her history. She was for some time engaged to be married to a young man—young at that period—at Southampton. His name was Smithers. Circumstances separated them before the realisation of their hopes and wishes; and she came to London with her father, who soon afterwards died of a broken heart through misfortunes in business."

"Broken heart!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man contemptuously: "who ever died of a broken heart? But never mind—go on."

"Harriet was alone in the world—an orphan—unprotected—and without friends or resources," continued the hag. "She was accordingly compelled to go out to service. A wealthy gentleman saw her, and fell in love with her—but I shall not tell you all about that! No—I shall not tell you about that! Harriet's was a strange fate—a sad fate; and I do not like to think of the part I acted in some respects towards her," added the old woman, shaking her head, as if it were in regret of the past.

"Go on," said the Resurrection Man. "If you have got any thing unpleasant in your memory, all the shakings of heads in the world won't drive it out."

"Alack! you speak the truth—you speak the truth," muttered the old woman. "It was the blackest deed I ever committed—I wish it had never occurred: it troubles me very often; and when I cannot sleep at night, I am constantly thinking of Harriet Wilmot."

"What is all this to lead to?" demanded Tidkins, impatiently.

"I shall not trouble you with many more of my reflections," said the hag. "Harriet became a mother: she had a daughter, on whom she bestowed the name of Katherine. Three or four years afterwards I lost sight of her, and never beheld her more. From that time all traces of herself and her child were gone until last year, when the murder of Reginald Tracy's housekeeper placed the name of Katherine Wilmot before the public. That name immediately struck me: the newspapers said she was sixteen years old—precisely the age that Harriet's daughter must have been. Then the name of Smithers was mixed up in the proceedings which ensued: I saw it all—Harriet must be dead, and Smithers had adopted her child as his niece! But, to convince myself still further, I went to the Old Bailey—I saw Katherine in the dock: you might have knocked me down with a feather, so strong was the resemblance between the young girl and her deceased mother! I came home—I was very ill: methought I had seen the ghost of one whom I had deeply, deeply injured!"

"And now you have so far forgotten your remorse that you are desirous to turn your knowledge of Katherine's parentage to a good account?" said the Resurrection Man, with a sneering laugh. "But how do you know that she is not well informed on that head already?"

"She cannot be—she cannot be," answered the old hag; "she would not bear the name of Wilmot if she was. Besides, I have since ascertained that her mother died when she was only four years old; and therefore Katherine was too young to receive any revelation from her parent's lips. No—no: I have good reason to believe that Katherine knows nothing of her paternal origin."

"I am now perfectly satisfied, from all you have told me, that Katherine Wilmot is the daughter of the Harriet whom you knew," said the Resurrection Man; "and as you seem so positive that she is unaware of many important particulars concerning her birth, I will proceed in the business you have proposed to me."

"Where is she living?" inquired the old woman.

"If I tell you that," said Tidkins, "what guarantee have I got that you will not post off alone to her, extort the purchase-money for your secrets, and chouse me out of my reglars? Look you—I have been at the trouble and expense of finding her out—which you never could have done—and I must go halves with you in the produce of the affair."

"So you shall—so you may," returned the old woman. "But I will not speak to her in your hearing. I don't know how it is that I have a strange superstitious awe in connexion with all that concerns Harriet Wilmot's memory and the existence of her child. I cannot help the feeling—I cannot help it."

"By Satan," exclaimed the Resurrection Man, darting a furious glance upon the hag, "you are either a drivelling fool, or you are deceiving me. You entertain compunction about these Wilmots—and yet you purpose to obtain money from the girl. Now is this consistent? Take care how you play with me; for—if I catch you out in any of your tricks—I will hang you up to your own bedpost as readily as I would wring the neck of that damned old cat."

"You shall see whether I will deceive you—you shall see," cried the old hag, with some degree of alarm. "Arrange the business as you will, so long as I may have speech of Katherine without being overheard; but you shall be present when she pays me for the secret which I have to communicate."

"Let that be the understanding, and I am agreeable," observed the Resurrection Man. "Will it suit you to go a few miles out of town with me to-morrow."

"Is it to see Katherine?" inquired the hag.

"What the devil else do you think I want your company for?" cried Tidkins: "to take you to dine at Greenwich or Blackwall—eh? Not quite such a fool as that! However, to-morrow morning you may expect me at seven o'clock——"

"It is not light at that hour," observed the hag.

"I prefer the dusk of either morning or evening," answered the Resurrection Man. "It suits me better—because I have a few enemies in London. But, as I was saying, I shall call for you at seven to-morrow morning; a friend of mine—one Banks of Globe Town—has a covered spring-cart and a capital bit of horse-flesh. He will drive us to where we have to go, in no time. So don't keep us waiting—as the vehicle will be at the bottom of the lane by a quarter to seven."

The old hag promised to be punctual; and the Resurrection Man took his departure from her den.

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CXCVII. ELLEN AND KATHERINE

Turn we now to the farm-house of the Bennets near Hounslow—the residence of Katherine Wilmot.

The morning was dry and beautiful—one of those mornings which sometimes cheer us towards the end of January, and give us a short foretaste of the approaching spring.

It was nine o'clock, when the door of the farm-house opened, and two young females came forth to enjoy the fresh air of a charming day.

These were Ellen Monroe—(for by her maiden name must we continue to call her, as she herself maintained it for the present)—and Katherine Wilmot.

Never had Ellen appeared more beautiful; nor Katherine more sweetly interesting.

They had evidently been conversing on a subject which gave them pleasure; and they were both intent on continuing the same delightful topic during their walk.

The subject of that discourse had inspired Ellen with emotions of pride, as well as of joy. She walked with a dignity and yet an elegance of motion which denoted the vigour of that vital system which was so highly developed in her voluptuous style of beauty. The generous and noble feelings of the heart shone in the light of her deep blue eyes, and in the animation of that countenance where the fair and red were so exquisitely blended. They were indicated, too, by the expression of that short and somewhat haughty upper lip which belonged to the classic regularity of her features, and in the dilation of the rose-tinted nostrils.

Ellen was a finer and far lovelier creature than Katherine;—but the latter was characterised by more of that tender sensibility and touching interest which physiologists deem the development of the intellectual system. The eyes were intensely expressive; and over her features a soft, pale, and modest light seemed to be shed. Her figure was delicate and slight, and contrasted strongly with that luxuriant expansion which constituted the fine and not less symmetrical proportions of Ellen.

"I shall really experience deep regret to leave your dwelling-place, dear Katherine," observed Ellen, as they entered a hard and dry pathway leading through the fields; "for even at this season, it possesses many attractions superior to the vicinity of a great city."

"In the warmer months it is a beautiful spot," returned Katherine. "But you will not leave me to-day? Consider—you have only been here a few hours——"

"Since yesterday morning," exclaimed Ellen, with a smile; "and in that time we have formed a friendship which may never, I hope, be interrupted."

"Oh! never," said Katherine warmly. "It was so kind of you to come and find me out in my seclusion—so considerate to make me acquainted with all those wonderful events which have occurred to my benefactor——"

"Nay—neither kind nor considerate," again interrupted Ellen. "Richard's letter, dated from the city of Abrantani on the 10th, and received by my father the day before yesterday, enjoined him to send me to see you—to make your acquaintance—to assure myself that you are well and happy—and to communicate to you tidings which Richard feels will be welcome to all his friends."

"Oh! welcome indeed!" exclaimed Katherine, with grateful enthusiasm. "How much do I owe to him—and how worthy is he of that rank which has rewarded his grand deeds! Such a man could not long remain a humble individual: his great talents—his noble heart—his fine qualities were certain to elevate him above the sphere in which he was born."

"And now will the name of Markham go down to posterity," said Ellen, proudly: "and the glory which Richard has thrown around it, will be to some degree shared by all who bear it. Oh! this was prophesied to me but a little while ago;—and yet, then how far was I from suspecting that the realisation of the prediction was so near at hand, especially too, as that prediction was not uttered with any reference to Richard—but to another,—that other alluding to himself!"

Katherine cast a glance of surprise towards her companion, whose last words were unintelligible to her; and Ellen, apparently recollecting herself, hastened to add, "But I was speaking of matters which are yet unknown—yet strange to you. Think no more of my observations on that topic. There are times when the soul is lost and bewildered in the contemplation of the world's strange events and marvellous vicissitudes; and such has often been the case with me during the last few days. It was on the 16th of January that we received the letter which imparted us the tidings of Richard's first exploit—the capture of Estella. Oh! how sincerely I prayed for his success—and yet I trembled for him! My father, too, had some misgivings; but we endeavoured to reassure each other, mutually concealing our fears. Two or three days afterwards we received the news of his triumphant entry into Villabella;—another interval of a few days, and we had a letter from him, giving us a brief account of the Battle of Piacere. Our fears were almost entirely dissipated by the tidings of this glorious achievement; and if any doubts yet lingered, they were completely dispelled by the news of the great victory of Abrantani. Oh! how well has he earned that coronet which now adorns his brow!—how well does that proud title of Marquis become the great, the generous, and the good!"

"Would that his struggles were over, and that the civil war was put an end to in Castelcicala!" exclaimed Miss Wilmot—for the news of the great victory beneath the walls of Montoni were yet unknown in England.

"I have no fears for the result," said Ellen: "a conqueror has he hitherto been—and a conqueror will he remain! Heaven itself prospers him in this undertaking: the wise dispensations of Providence are apparent throughout his career in the Grand Duchy. Had the first expedition, which landed at Ossore, succeeded, there were great chiefs—Grachia and Morosino—who would have taken the lead in the State. But the enterprise failed—and those patriots were numbered with the slain. The idea of releasing from their captivity his companions in that fatal affair, led Richard to the attack of Estella. He succeeded—and he stood alone at the head of the movement. There was not a chief amongst the patriots to dispute his title to that elevated situation."

"Yes—the finger of heaven was assuredly visible in all those circumstances which led to my benefactor's greatness," remarked Katherine. "Methinks that when I see him again, I shall be strangely embarrassed in his presence:—instead of addressing him by the familiar name of Mr. Markham, my lips must tutor themselves to breathe the formal words 'My Lord,' and 'Your Lordship;' and——"

"Oh! you wrong our noble-hearted friend—our mutual benefactor," interrupted Ellen. "Rank and distinction—wealth and glory cannot change his heart: he will only esteem them as the elements of an influence and of a power to do much good."

The young ladies paused in their conversation, because two persons were approaching along the pathway.

A man muffled in a large cloak, and with a countenance of cadaverous repulsiveness scowling above the collar, advanced first; and behind him walked a female whose bowed form denoted the decrepitude of old age. There was an interval of perhaps a dozen yards between them; for the woman was unable to keep pace with the more impatient progress of the man.

"Is this the way, young ladies, to Farmer Bennet's?" demanded the foremost individual, when he was within a few feet of Ellen and Katherine.

"It is," replied Kate. "You may see the roof appearing from the other side of yonder eminence. Mr. Bennet is not, however, within at this moment: he has gone to a neighbouring village on business, and will not return till two o'clock."

"Then you know Farmer Bennet?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man—for he was the individual who had addressed the young ladies.

But before Katherine could give any reply, an exclamation of astonishment broke from the lips of Ellen, whose eyes had just recognised the countenance of the old hag.

"Well, Miss—do I have the pleasure of meeting you once more?" said the detestable woman, with a leer comprehensively significant in allusion to the past: then, as her eyes wandered from Ellen's countenance to that of Katherine, she suddenly became strangely excited, and exclaimed, "Ah! Miss Wilmot!"

"Is this Miss Wilmot?" demanded the Resurrection Man, with an impatient glance towards Katherine, while he really addressed himself to the old hag.

"My name is Wilmot," said Kate, in her soft and somewhat timid tone. "Was it for me that your visit to the farm was intended?"

"Neither more nor less, Miss," answered the Resurrection Man. "This person," he continued, indicating his horrible companion, "has something important to say to you."

"Yes—and we must speak alone, too," said the hag.

"No!" ejaculated Ellen, hastily and firmly; "that may not be. I am Miss Wilmot's friend—the friend, too, of one in whom she places great confidence; and whatever you may have to communicate to her cannot be a secret in respect to me."

And, as she uttered these words, she glanced significantly at her young companion.

"Yes," said Kate, who understood the hint conveyed in that look, although she was of course entirely ignorant of the motives of Ellen's precaution: "yes—whatever you may wish to communicate to me must be told in the presence of my friend."

"But the business is a most delicate one," cried the Resurrection Man.

"Oh! I have no doubt of that," exclaimed Ellen, with a contemptuous smile which the hag fully comprehended.

"Do you know this young lady?" asked the Resurrection Man, in an under tone, of the old woman, while he rapidly indicated Ellen.

"I know that young lady well," said the hag aloud, and with a meaning glance: "I know you well,—do I not, Miss Monroe?"

"I am not disposed to deny the fact," replied Ellen, coolly; "and I can assure you that my disposition is as resolute and determined as you have always found it to be. Therefore, if you have aught to communicate to Miss Wilmot, say it quickly—or come with us to the farm, where you will be more at your ease: but, remember, I do not quit this young lady while you are with her."

"You will repent of this obstinacy, Miss—you will repent of this obstinacy," muttered the hag.

"It may be so," said Ellen: "nevertheless, menaces will not deter me from my purpose."

"If you thwart me, I can proclaim matters that you would wish unrevealed," retorted the hag, but in a whisper apart to Ellen.

"Act as you please," exclaimed this young lady aloud, and with a superb glance of contemptuous defiance. "Your impertinence only convinces me the more profoundly of the prudence of my resolution to remain with Miss Wilmot."

The hag made no reply: she knew not how to act.

Tidkins was not, however, equally embarrassed. He saw that Ellen was acquainted with the old woman's character, and that she entertained suspicions of a nature which threatened to mar the object of his visit to that neighbourhood.

"Miss Monroe," he said,—"for such, I learn, is your name,—I beg of you to allow my companion a few moments' conversation with your young friend. They need not retire a dozen yards from this spot; and your eye can remain upon them."

"No," returned Ellen, positively: "your companion shall have no private conference with Miss Wilmot. Miss Wilmot's affairs are no secret to me;—she has voluntarily made me acquainted with her past history and her present condition—and she cannot now wish me to remain a stranger to the object of your visit, however delicate be the nature of that business."

"I am desirous that Miss Monroe should hear your communications," added Kate.

"I will not speak to Miss Wilmot in the presence of witnesses," said the old hag.

"Then we have nothing farther to prevent us from returning to the farm immediately," exclaimed Ellen; and, taking Katherine's arm, she turned away with a haughty inclination of her head.

"Neither need we remain here any longer, Mr. Tidkins," said the hag.

"Tidkins!" repeated Ellen, with a convulsive shudder—for the name reached her ear as she was leading her young friend homeward:—"Tidkins!" she murmured, the blood running cold in her veins; "my God! what new plot can now be contemplated?"

And she hurried Katherine along the path, as if a wild beast were behind them.

"Do you know those people?" asked Miss Wilmot, alarmed by her companion's tone and manner.

"Unfortunately," replied Ellen, in a low voice and with rapid utterance,—"unfortunately I can attest that the woman whom we have just met, is the vilest of the vile; and the mention of that man's name has revealed to me the presence of a wretch capable of every atrocity—a villain whose crimes are of the blackest dye—an assassin whose enmity to our benefactor Richard is as furious as it is unwearied. Come, Katharine—come: hasten your steps;—we shall not be in safety until we reach the farm."

And the two young ladies hurried rapidly along the path towards the dwelling, every now and then casting timid glances behind them.

But the Resurrection Man and the old hag had not thought it expedient to follow.

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CXCVIII. A GLOOMY VISITOR

As soon as the two young ladies had reached the farm-house, Ellen addressed Katherine with alarming seriousness of manner.

"My dear friend," she said, "some plot is in existence against your peace. That fearful-looking man and that horrible old woman are perfect fiends in mortal shape."

"But what cause of enmity can they entertain against me?" asked Katharine, drawing her chair close to Ellen's seat with that sweet confidence which a younger sister would have been expected to show towards an elder one. "I never saw them before in my life, to my knowledge; and I certainly never can have injured them."

"You are rich—and that is a sufficient motive to inspire the man with designs against you: you are pretty—and that is a sufficient reason for inducing the woman to spread her nets in your path. The man," continued Ellen, "has more than once attempted the life of our generous benefactor Richard; and that old hag, Katherine, is a wretch who lives upon the ruin of young females."

At this moment Mrs. Bennet entered the room; and, observing the disturbed countenances of Ellen and Katherine, she felt alarmed.

Ellen immediately communicated to her the particulars of the adventure just related, and concluded with these observations:—"The person of the man was previously unknown to me; but Mr. Markham had made me familiar with his name. Thus, when I heard that name breathed by his infamous companion, I recognised in him the monster of whose crimes my benefactor has related so dread a history. As for the woman," added Ellen, after a moment's hesitation, "she has been pointed out to me as one of those vile wretches who render cities and great towns dangerous to young females. Indeed, she once practised her arts upon me:—hence I am well aware of her true character."

Mrs. Bennet was dreadfully frightened at the incident which had occurred; but, like Katherine, she was somewhat at a loss to conceive what possible object the two bad characters whom Ellen so bitterly denounced, could have in view with respect to her young charge.

The trio were still conversing upon the mysterious occurrence, when Farmer Bennet entered the room.

Of course the narrative had to be repeated to him; and he was much troubled by what he heard.

The dinner was served up; but none of those who sate down to it ate with any appetite. A vague and uncertain consciousness of impending danger or of serious annoyance oppressed them all.

The table was cleared; and Mrs. Bennet had just produced a bottle of excellent home-made wine, "to cheer their spirits," as she said, when the servant entered to announce that a person desired to speak to Mr. Bennet. The farmer ordered the individual in question to be admitted; and the servant, having disappeared for a few moments, returned, ushering in an elderly man dressed in shabby black, and wearing a dingy white cravat with very limp ends.

"Your servant, ma'am—your most obedient, young ladies," said he: then, starting with well-affected surprise, he ejaculated, "Ah! if my eyes doesn't deceive me in my old age, that's Miss Kate Wilmot, werily and truly!"

"Mr. Banks!" said Katherine, in a tone expressive of both surprise and aversion; for she remembered that the undertaker used to call upon Smithers to purchase the rope by means of which criminals had been executed.

"Yes, my dear—my name is, as you say, Banks—Edward Banks, of Globe Lane, London—Furnisher of Funerals on New and Economic Principles—Good Deal Coffin, Eight Shillings and Sixpence—Stout Oak, Thirty-five Shillings—Patent Funeral Carriage, One Pound Eleven—First Rate Carriage-Funeral, Mutes and Feathers, Four Pound Four—Catholic Fittings——"

"Really, sir," exclaimed Mr. Bennet, impatiently, "this is not a very pleasant subject for conversation; and if you have come upon no other business than to recite your Prospectus——"

"A thousand apologies, sir—a thousand apologies," interrupted Mr. Banks, calmly sinking into a seat. "But whenever I see a few or a many mortal wessels gathered together, I always think that the day must come when they'll be nothink more than blessed carkisses and then, Mr. Bennet," added the undertaker, shaking his head solemnly, and applying a dirty white handkerchief to his eyes, "how pleasant to the wirtuous feelings must it be to know where to get the funeral done on the newest and most economic principles."

"Katherine, do you know this person?" inquired the farmer, irritated by the intruder's pertinacity in his gloomy topic.

"I have seen him three or four times at Mr. Smithers' house in London," was the answer; "but Mr. Banks well knows that I never exchanged ten words with him in my life."

"Then you do not come to see Miss Wilmot?" demanded Mr. Bennet, turning towards the undertaker.

"No, sir—no," answered Banks, heaving a deep sigh. "Did you not perceive, sir, that I was quite took at a non-plush when I set my wenerable eyes on the blessed countenance of that charming gal? But pardon me, sir—pardon me, if I am someot long in coming to the pint:—it is, however, my natur' to ramble when I reflects on the pomps and wanities of this wicked world; and natur' is natur,' sir, after all—is it not, ma'am?"

Here he turned with a most dolorous expression of countenance towards Mrs. Bennet.

"I really do not understand you, sir," was her laconic reply:—nor more she did, good woman! for it was not even probable that Mr. Banks quite understood himself.

"Now, sir, will you have the goodness to explain the nature of your business with me—since it is with me, no doubt, that you have business to transact?" said the farmer, in a tone which showed how disagreeable the undertaker's whining nonsense was to him.

"Something tells me that this man's visit bears reference to our adventure of the morning," whispered Ellen to Katherine. "Do not offer to leave the room: let us hear all he has to say."

Katherine replied by a meaning look, and then glanced with suspicious timidity towards Banks, who was again speaking.

"My business isn't to be explained in a moment, sir," said the undertaker; "and I must beg your patience for a little while."

"Go on," exclaimed the farmer, throwing himself back in his seat, and folding his arms with the desperate air of a man who knew that he could only get rid of a troublesome visitor by allowing him to tell his story in his own way.

"You're in mourning, ma'am, I see," observed Mr. Banks, turning towards Mrs. Bennet. "Ah! I remember—that wexatious affair of the Rector of Saint David's. Pray, ma'am, who undertook the funeral of your blessed defunct sister?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, tears starting into her eyes.

"No offence, ma'am—no offence. Only I should like it to be known in these here parts that Edward Banks—of Globe Lane, London, undertakes on new and economic principles, and doesn't mind distances. S'pose, sir," continued this most disagreeable visitor, again addressing the farmer, "s'pose you come to me some fine morning and says, 'Banks,' says you, 'my dear wife has just become a blessed defunct——'"

"This is too much!" ejaculated Mr. Bennet, starting from his seat. "Have you, or have you not, any business to engage my attention?"

"I'm coming to the pint—I'm coming to the pint this moment," said Banks. "Pray sit down for a few minutes—I shan't ingross much more of your wallyable time; for time really is wallyable in this sublunary speer;"—and the undertaker shook his head so mournfully that worthy Mrs. Bennet could not help thinking he was a very good and humane, though somewhat a prosy individual. "When we look around us, and behold how many benighted creeturs lives in total recklessness for the futur'—without putting by in an old stocking or any where else a single penny towards buying 'em a decent coffin—it's enough to make one's hair stand on end. But I see you are growing impatient, sir:—well—perhaps my feelings does carry me away. Still I don't mean no harm. Howsomever—business is business, as coffins is coffins, or carkisses is carkisses; and so here's to business in a jiffy."

With these words Mr. Banks drew from his capacious coat-pocket a brown-paper parcel, about a foot long, three inches wide, and as many deep.

Then he began, with most provoking deliberation of manner, to unroll the numerous folds of paper in which the precious object of so much care was wrapped; and, while he thus aroused the curiosity of his spectators to the utmost, he continued talking in a more lachrymose style than ever.

"There is dooties which we owe to heaven—and there is dooties which we owe to our fellow-creeturs. To heaven, ma'am, we owes a obligation of wirtue: to our fellow-creeturs we owes respect and decency when they're no more. Wirtues, ma'am, is like the white nails on a black-cloth covered coffin: the more there is of 'em, the stronger is the coffin, and the better it looks. Wices, ma'am, is like the knots in a common deal coffin: the more there is of 'em, the veaker is the coffin, and the wuss it looks. I'm now a-going to show you, ma'am—and you, too, sir—and you also, young ladies—a object of the deepest interest to us poor mortal wessels. I've wrapped it up in this wise, 'cause I've paytented it, and this is the only model I've got. When once it's generally known, the whole world will thank me for the inwention; and posterity will remember with gratitude the name of Banks of Globe Lane—Furnisher of Funerals on New and Economic Principles. You see, the parcel is gettin' smaller and smaller—'cause the blessed object was as well wrapped up as a young babby. However—here's the last fold:—off with the paper—and there's the concentrating focus of all interest!"

As Mr. Banks wound up with this beautiful peroration, he disengaged from the last fold of paper a miniature model of a coffin, about eight inches long, and wide and deep in proportion. It was covered with black silk, and was studded with innumerable white nails.

But as he placed it, with a glance of almost paternal affection, upon the table, the farmer started up, exclaiming, "I have already put up with your insolence too long. What does this unwarrantable intrusion upon my privacy mean? Speak, sir: have you any thing to say to me?"

"I am now coming to the pint at length," answered the undertaker, but little abashed by this rebuff. "In one word," he continued, producing a small memorandum-book and preparing to write with a pencil,—"in one word, I want you and your family to let me put down each of your names——"

"For what?" demanded Bennet, impatiently.

"For a Paytent Silk-covered Silver-nailed Indestructible Wood-seasoned Coffin," was the calm reply. "It's warranted to keep as good as new till you want it."

Mr. Bennet fell back into his seat, completely stupefied by this extraordinary announcement;—Mrs. Bennet cast horrified glances at the undertaker, as if she thought he was mad;—Ellen cast a look of deep indignation on the individual who had produced this excitement;—and Katherine started on her seat, exclaiming, "What have you done, Mr. Banks? Mrs. Bennet is fainting!"

This was really the case—such an effect did the sudden display of the coffin and the cool demand of patronage made by the undertaker, produce upon one whose mind had not yet quite recovered from the severe shock occasioned by the murder of her sister.

"Water, Katherine!—quick!" exclaimed the farmer, hastening towards his wife.

Kate instantly hurried from the room to fetch water; while Ellen, on her part, proffered the necessary attentions to the fainting woman.

Mr. Banks was thus for a moment forgotten; and this was exactly the condition of things that suited his purpose. Hastily thrusting the model coffin into his pocket, he seized his hat and hurried from the parlour, closing the door behind him.

In the passage he met Kate, who was hastening back to the room, with a jug of water in her hand.

"One moment—only one moment—as you value the memory of your deceased mother,"—whispered Banks, speaking more rapidly and with less whining affectation than he had done for many years. "Take this note—read it in private—its contents deeply concern you and your blessed defunct parent. If you breathe a word concerning it to a soul you will for ever lose the opportunity of knowing who was your father."

Banks thrust a note into the girl's hand, and hastily left the house.

The words which he had uttered, produced—as might naturally be supposed—so strange an effect upon Katherine,—that sudden allusion to her mother took her so much by surprise,—and then that mysterious mention of her father increased her bewilderment to such an extent, that she mechanically grasped the note with a mixture of awe and gratitude, and, prompted by the same impulses, thrust it into the bosom of her dress.

All this was the work of scarcely a quarter of a minute; and the moment she had thus received and concealed the note, she re-entered the parlour, where the aid of the fresh water soon brought Mrs. Bennet to herself.

"Where is that scoundrel?" cried the farmer, now finding leisure to think of the cause of his wife's sudden indisposition.

"He is gone," returned Katherine.

Then, seating herself near the window, the young girl fell into a profound reverie.

"Gone!" ejaculated Bennet. "But it is better that he should have gone—or I might be tempted to do him a mischief."

"That man came hither with some sinister design," said Ellen. "From the first moment of his appearance, my suspicions associated his visit with the adventure of the morning."

"But what object could he have?" cried the farmer. "He seemed only anxious to intrude himself as long as possible."

"Perhaps he was waiting for an opportunity to speak to Katherine alone," observed Ellen. "He certainly appeared to be talking against time."

"Yes, dear friends," exclaimed Katherine, rising from her seat, and advancing towards those whom she thus addressed; "that man did desire to speak to me alone—and he succeeded in his object. Pardon me if for a few moments I hesitated whether to obey his solemn injunction of silence, or to communicate the incident to you who wish me well. But the words which he spoke, and the earnestness of his manner, bewildered me. It however only required a short interval of sober reflection to teach me my duty."

Katherine then repeated the words that Banks had whispered in her ears, and produced the note which he had thrust into her hand.

"You have acted prudently in revealing these particulars, dear Kate," said Ellen. "A man who is compelled to effect his purposes by such low devices as those employed by him who has just left us, cannot mean well."

"Let us hear the contents of the letter," cried Farmer Bennet: "we may then, perhaps, see more clearly into the mystery."

"Read it, Ellen," said Kate. "I must confess to a profound curiosity to become acquainted with its contents."

Ellen accordingly opened the note, and read as follows:—

"Silence and secrecy,—if you respect the memory of your deceased mother! Be not deluded by the advice of Miss Monroe, who has her own reasons for prejudicing you against me. I am well acquainted with all the particulars of your birth:—I can impart facts that it behoves you to learn. You will bitterly repent any distrust in this matter. Have you no inclination to hear more concerning your mother's history than you can possibly now know? would you not go far, and sacrifice much, to glean something with regard to your father? This evening—at seven precisely—I shall be at the foot of the hill where I met you just now. If you come alone, you will learn much that nearly and deeply concerns you: if you appear accompanied by a soul, my lips will remain sealed.

"THE FEMALE YOU SAW JUST NOW."

"I have so far my own reasons for counselling you against that wicked woman," said Ellen, indignantly, "inasmuch as I would save you from danger. But if you really believe that there can be any thing serious in this promise of important communications, I should advise you to meet that female—for precautions can be adopted to protect you from a distance."

Katherine glanced inquiringly towards the farmer.

"I see that you are anxious to meet this woman, Kate," said he, after a pause; "and it is natural. She promises communications on subjects that cannot be otherwise than dear to you. Miss Monroe and I can keep watch at a distance; and on the slightest elevation of voice on your part, we will hasten to your assistance."

This project was approved of even by the timid Mrs. Bennet; and Katherine Wilmot anxiously awaited the coming of the appointed hour.

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